


Amaranthine and Adamantine

by CakeMonster



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alistair and Anders Don't Like Each Other, Angst, Blood and Violence, F/M, Gen, Humor, Innuendo, Long-Term Relationship(s), OC Background Wardens, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Still in Redcliffe, Unplanned Pregnancy, Warden Stonecipher
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 77,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3322664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CakeMonster/pseuds/CakeMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warden-Commander Stonecipher (f!Brosca) must guide the Grey Wardens of Ferelden through the tumultuous events surrounding the Breach all while facing trials of her own. Events bring her to old friends and new, and relationships are tested. Starts just before the events in Inquisition, will likely continue towards the Siege of Adamant and a bit beyond.</p>
<p>Warnings: Eventual DA:I Spoilers through “Here Lies the Abyss”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End is Nigh

**Author's Note:**

> It has been a while since I've written a more ambitious fic. This contains references to sex, and I will update the rating if work merits it. Originally inspired after wondering why the Warden was off doing their own thing during Inquisition and not hanging out with the other Wardens.

Zevran awoke to soft morning light filtering in from the grated window. As he shifted, the blanket covering his shoulders fell away, making him feel distinctly cold. _Ah, Ferelden_ , he thought sleepily, hand seeking the blanket. He pulled it over him again, shielding his nakedness from the cool air.

He allowed himself to awaken slowly, then looked around for his companion. Zevran saw that the Commander of the Grey was bent over, tending the fireplace. He noted with some pleasure that she was only half-dressed. Her quilted tunic was longer on her than it was on most, covering almost all of her thighs, and matched with her grey woolen socks. He stretched out languidly, comfortable, observing her and feeling content with the world.

"Good morning, _amor_ ," he said, voice breathy and soft.

" _Zev_ ," replied the woman, her voice distant. "Good morning."

"Up with the sun?" The elf sat up now, keeping himself ensconced in the warmth. "You work too hard, my dear. The darkspawn can wait."

The Warden-Commander did not answer him. She merely stayed at her post in front of the fireplace, head bent. Zevran playfully tilted his head; he had not seen the whitening of her knuckles from his vantage point.

"There is a second option, which I think you might prefer," he continued, smirking. "It consists of discarding that tunic and spending the next several hours with me in bed. What say you?"

He meant this in jest. Not that he would say _no_ , exactly, if she took him up on the offer, but Warden-Commander Stonecipher stuck to a strict morning regimen--breakfast, physical training, and the handling of the Keep's most pressing affairs, usually administrative in nature.

The woman responded by reaching up her hand and violently swiping all the items upon the mantelpiece onto the floor. These were mainly candles and their pewter holders and a stone carving of a griffon, but they made a racket falling upon the stone floor.

"Millagre?" Zevran addressed her, more alert now. "What is the matter?"

"Everything," she said bitterly. "Everything is. It's _all_ rotten."

He wondered briefly if this was something he had done, if unintentionally. Zevran had recently returned from a trip of several months to Antiva, leaving her alone at Vigil's Keep. She was supportive in his life's work generally, but the distance was hard at times.

"Ah, yes. The world is a dreadful place," he said. "Is there, perhaps, something specifically _rotten_ about it, or...well, more rotten than usual?"

"You don't understand."

And when she turned to face him, Millagre paused to truly _look_ at him, to sear an image of him in her mind's eye. In his current state, Zevran looked almost childlike, with his tousled blond hair and wide bronze eyes fixed upon her.

"Even now, I can hear it all around us," she said, pained. "The song of the Old Gods. There can be no mistaking it, and it will not cease. My body is succumbing to the corruption, Zev."

Zevran's blood ran cold with the realization that she was speaking of her _Calling_.

Wordlessly he swung his legs over the bed, standing and padding over to the shorter woman. He drew her against him, beneath the blanket which fell from his shoulders. Chilled toes were the least of his concerns now.

Millagre accepted the embrace and clung to him, unwilling to let go. Zevran pressed his lips against the crown of her head. Even though he seemed calm on the exterior, there was little that terrified him more. This was a day which he had hoped never to see, but especially now, with Millagre still so young. They had only known each other just under a decade, married for only six.

Zevran could remember a conversation he had had with her, shortly after she had assumed her title of "Commander of the Grey" in Ferelden. He had asked her why Grey Wardens never seemed to actually be _grey_. Millagre had told him of their limited lifespan.

_Thirty years, give or take_ , she had explained to him. _From the date of your Joining._

_So about fifty years? That is an above average lifespan for an assassin_ , _my dear Warden_. _I will make sure to die well before that._

_Zevran_. _I know you are joking,_ Millagre had said, stone-faced, _but I sincerely hope you outlive me for another thirty after that. In fact, I hope you become a short, wrinkled old man and that you pass unaware while you sleep_.

"I'm sorry, Zev," she mumbled against his chest, swallowing.

"Shhh," he urged. He could feel faint moisture against his skin, which he assumed were tears. Zevran could feel himself welling up, but he tried to suppress this.

"If I had been stronger, I..." Millagre laid her cheek against him, her voice less muffled. "If only I had been stronger. I thought..."

Zevran sighed. "Stronger? Who could be stronger than you? Slayer of the archdemon, of dragons, of darkspawn hordes. All these creatures felled by your hands. No, my dear, it could not be a matter of strength alone."

Millagre sniffled, trying to blink back tears and failing. She did not need to do this. After all, if she could not pour out her emotions in front of Zevran, who had seen her at her worst and had not judged her, when could she? Yet she felt compelled to swallow her tears. How many stories had she heard of Grey Wardens heading off to their Calling, stoic and brave until the end?

The Calling had always been a certainty. Thirty years had never been a guarantee--but she had hoped for them. Maybe after thirty, Millagre could accept her fate in the Deep Roads. But not now.

"I'm not ready," she admitted. "I don't want to die."

Zevran squeezed her gently, reminding her that he was there. He would release his Warden only when she pulled away, and _only_ then. But it was as much for his own benefit as it was for hers. How many more times would he hold her like this? And just how long did Wardens have once they heard this swan song?

Silently, he cursed himself for those months he had spent in Antiva. If only he had known.

"Nor do I." Zevran tilted his head to look at her. Slowly, tentatively, he reached a hand to her face. He traced the brand on her eye and cheek, which her own people had used to mark her as _nothing_ , never realizing that she would become their Paragon. Never realizing that she would become his everything.

"...want you dead, that is," he added. "Though the first statement holds true as well, I admit."

Millagre almost smiled. A more pessimistic-minded individual might say she simply frowned less, but either way, Zevran considered this an improvement.

Zevran ran his finger down her jaw, stopping just under the chin. He curled that finger and lifted slightly, then brought his lips to meet hers. It was an affectionate kiss, and somewhat prolonged. It might have evolved into multiples had there not been an urgent knock at the door. They pulled away.

"Shall I get that for you?" offered the man with feigned innocence.

The dwarf shook her head. "I'm sure they're used to it by now."

"Very well."

Zevran then started to walk towards the Warden-Commander's office, which adjoined the bedroom, when Millagre grabbed his arm. "Let me," she said with a smirk. "Smart ass. Go put on some pants."

"As you command, my Warden." Zevran gave a fanciful flourish of the hand as he bowed halfway. "I will make myself decent, as you say."

And when Zevran turned his back, Millagre sniffed and covertly wiped her eyes. The music was still there, like an ethereal humming of a slow-paced lullaby, like a constant reverberation. It was difficult to get used to, impossible to forget entirely. But perhaps for the moment she could forget of her impending death.

Millagre answered the door to find Nathaniel Howe, who impeccably dressed as a Warden marksman. When he saw that she wore only a tunic, he cast his gaze away slightly, which he felt was only proper considering her superior rank and owing to the fact she was of the female persuasion.

"Commander," he said, voice uncertain. "I...apologize for disturbing you so early."

"You don't have to worry about that with me, Nate. Was there something you needed?"

"In fact, yes. I wanted to speak to you privately about a matter, and I saw no point in postponing it."

Millagre nodded, then ushered the Warden-Constable inside. "All right, we can talk. Come in and have a seat."

The years which passed since Nathaniel's recruitment into the Wardens had been kind to him. After Loghain's departure for Orlais, he had been chosen to support Warden Stonecipher as her second-in-command. Most agreed he had been the logical choice. This was not something he had foreseen happening back when he had been arrested for thievery, much less after declaring his intent to kill her. Nathaniel found it strange to think upon how strained their relationship had been in those early days.

There was no-one else he'd rather serve under.

"Zevran is here," she said, as way of warning. Though as if on cue, Zevran appeared right at the bedroom entrance. He had managed to slip on a comfortable set of leather pants, though he was otherwise barefoot and bare-chested.

"Ah, Nathaniel. I was curious to see who it was."

Nathaniel had long ago gotten used to seeing Zevran in various states of undress in the Commander's room, but he had forgotten about the man entirely.

"Oh, you're here too, Zevran. Yes, I suppose you would be."

"If you need real privacy, then he will be happy to leave," she offered, seating herself at her desk. "As soon as he finishes getting dressed."

"Or I could simply cover my ears, sit in the corner, and sing a tune while you discuss important Grey Warden Business. I'm thinking something jaunty, but tasteful. Suggestions? There is that popular Ferelden ballad about Andraste and her mabari, but one might argue it possesses neither of those qualities."

Nathaniel had seated himself in an armchair, but perched at the end of it, unable to wholly relax. "I don't know," he said. "Privacy? Maybe. But if it's just you and Zevran..."

"Whatever makes you comfortable."

Nathaniel glanced back at Zevran, who took that as his cue. The elf dressed promptly. As he walked by the desk, Zevran gave Millagre's shoulder a small squeeze. She touched his hand, smiling somewhat mournfully. The exchange lasted only seconds, but Nathaniel supposed they had had an entire silent conversation.

When they were alone, Nathaniel studied his Commander.

"How are things between you?" he asked her.

"What, me and Zevran? Just fine." Millagre gave him an odd look. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't mean to pry," Nathaniel began. "But you looked as though you had been crying."

"Perceptive of you. There's nothing to be concerned about, though. And it most definitely has nothing to do with Zev. But enough of that - we're here to talk about you."

The dwarf woman laced her fingers and leaned forward, watching the man expectantly. The Warden-Constable sat grim-visaged and solemn, and spoke after a turn. "First I want to say it has been a pleasure serving with you...Millagre."

"Oh. Well, I...there is no-one I'd rather have beneath me. _Beside_ me," she corrected herself, clearing her throat. "You are doing an excellent job."

The man before her was clearly a candidate for Commander of the Grey. Millagre supposed she might even appoint him that day, once some of the bigger details were finalized. The thought that someone capable would take over command at Vigil's Keep reassured her. Though there were many capable men and women within the Grey Wardens these days. Still, Nathaniel's choice of words bugged her.

"I am glad to hear it," he said, managing to subtly smile in that trademark way of his, without breaking his otherwise stoic demeanor. "The Grey Wardens have been like a family to me."

Millagre frowned then, knitting her eyebrows together.

"I am starting to hear Calling now, Commander. This music...there is no other explanation."

And there it was, the reason that Nathaniel had come to her office. Providence decreed, apparently, that Millagre would not have to venture to the Deep Roads alone. While this would provide some comfort, it meant that the Maker had ended the life of a good man much too soon.

"Andraste's flaming beard...you, too?" she asked, somewhat incredulous.

Nathaniel paused. "What do you mean, ' _you, too'_?"

"It's a hell of a coincidence, I know, but... I awoke to the music this morning, hoping someone was just trying to learn the cello. But no, it was all in my head."

"Mine also started this morning," he said quietly. "Just after patrol."

The two of them were silent as they considered the improbability. Millagre reclined back in her chair, accompanied by a dull creak in the wood. Nathaniel glanced down at the desk before him, noting a small wooden griffon carving. It had grown somewhat warmer now, the scent of hickory drifting slowly in from the adjoining room, but that could not ease the burden both of them faced.

"So, Millagre...when you said there was 'nothing to be concerned about', there was, in fact, _something_."

She sighed. "Yes."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"What if someone had fallen off the battlements? Or been mauled by blighted wolves? Thought it best to hear what you had to say first."

"Is that so?" He smirked. Nathaniel stood up then, feeling uneasy as he sat. He elected to slowly pace the room instead. Then he pivoted on his front foot, turning sharply. "How long does it take, then?"

"To become fully corrupted? Probably weeks, on average, but I imagine it varies."

The Wardens at Weisshaupt had given her as much information as they possessed, but so much of their Order's information had been lost to time. They had added her experiences and testimony to the great archives. Millagre had seen what happened to those who did not immediately die of the Blight - they became ghouls, much like Hespith, whom she had met in the Deep Roads.

"I'm sorry, Nate. If it really is our time to go, I'm glad it's with you. But I have one request."

"Speak, then."

"If you see the darkspawn dragging me off," she began--and Nathaniel was reminded of the first time they had met Sigrun at Kal'Hirol--"shoot me with an arrow. I do not want to end up a broodmother."

The Warden-Constable nodded, grave. "You have my word."

 


	2. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more to the Wardens' situation than meets the eye, and they decide to do something about it.

The Warden Commander had started to become comfortable with the idea of marching to her death beside the inimitable Warden Howe. In fact, she had been debating on a choice poison to take along with her on the off-chance that Nathaniel was unable to end her, should she be captured.

_Perhaps it should be slow-acting,_  she thought idly to herself.  _Take it early, fight to the death, no need to worry about logistics._

Millagre paused, imagining herself at the yawning mouth of the Deep Roads, the hot lava streams leading off to some distant, blight-filled thaig. She pictured herself voluntarily tipping back a vial of poison, knowing that it would eventually claim her strength, that she would be swallowed into a horde of genlocks. They would perforate her carcass with their twisted daggers and rusted swords, and death would claim her.

The thought made her shiver.

"Commander."

The Senior Warden’s voice was unmistakable, lifting Millagre from her reverie. “Sigrun. Anything to report?”

” _Oh_  yes, and that’s why I came to you. There’s something funny going on around here. “

"Funny how?"

Sigrun looked left, then she looked right, scouting the hall. Then she drew in close to the Warden-Commander and spoke softly, lest other ears were listening in. Their comparable heights made sharing secrets easier and more discreet. Millagre was briefly reminded of when they were children on the streets back in Dust Town, but that was long ago.

"At first I thought it was just me," began Sigrun. "But then I heard someone else talking about it. The new guy. What’s his name?"

"You mean Warden Loughty."

"Is that his last name? I just know him as…what, Jeremy?"

"Mm, Jeremy Loughty."

"So I overheard him chatting with Reitz. He was talking about this weird humming repeating over and over in his head, like a song. Never ceasing."

Millagre’s eyes widened; she turned her head and stared at Sigrun. “Loughty is hearing his Calling?”

"Yes, him. The one who has been here  _one month_ , right? And he’s not the only one, Mills.”

"Caridin’s Teeth," she murmured. "Who else is hearing it besides Loughty?"

"Warden Reitz was,  _is_ ,” Sigrun replied with a sigh. “Both of them hearing it as loud and clear as I am.”

"You, too?"

"Yes…Commander. It’s the Calling. From all that I’ve heard about it, there’s nothing else it  _could_  be. Good thing I’m already dead, or this would be a problem.”

Sigrun delivered the news with remarkable composure, but the Warden-Commander’s thoughts were now scattered, going several directions at once. This was no simple Calling. She could accept her own death, and perhaps even Nathaniel’s, but for the song to be present with at least five Wardens at the same time was unprecedented, especially in a Warden chapter as small as Ferelden’s.

"Shit," said Millagre. "It’s not just you, Loughty, and Reitz. Nathaniel and I are both hearing it."

"You and Nathaniel?" Sigrun exhaled sharply, incredulous. Then she merely shook her head. "The way this is going, we’ll need to hire a caravan to the Deep Roads."

The Warden-Commander only smirked. One quickly adjusted to macabre humor upon joining the Order. “No-one’s going off on their Long Walk until we get to the bottom of this. We need to find out just how many Wardens this is affecting. Go take a consensus. We need to see how widespread this is, look for commonalities.”

"I gotcha," replied the other dwarf. "What do you plan to do?"

"First? Breakfast."

…

By mid-morning All the Wardens had gathered in the main hall of Vigil’s Keep along with Seneschal Varel and Zevran. Tension was palpable and catching, spreading among all the Wardens in the room. Panic was being kept in check by a sense of propriety, self-dignity, and the hope that their Commander might have answers.

Millagre Stonecipher strode into the room with an air of confidence, dressed to the nines in full armor. It was a beautiful, gleaming set of plate mail, likely forged with silverite. The quilted tunic was a brilliant ultramarine, suggesting that this was for formal occasions. She hoped that the sight of it might inspire.

She stood upon a raised platform, appearing as a greater figure than she was.

"Wardens! I appreciate your attendance. We are here today to discuss a pressing issue. Knowledge of this issue should not leave this room—it should be kept confidential, shared only with the brothers and sisters of our Order, with very few exceptions."

The Warden-Commander attempted to make eye contact with several in the crowd. Millagre could name every single one of them, and even give the names of those who had died. These were her men, her comrades, her family. She had been the one to recruit the majority of them, and they had given themselves over to her without question.

At last, she looked at Zevran, lingering towards the back of the room.

"We all hear it now, the song. The same song of the Old Gods that the darkspawn hear. Grey Wardens have written their impressions on the sound of it for as long as there have been Wardens. Normally it would mean we are succumbing to the Taint, that we are becoming more like the darkspawn."

"I am here to tell you  _this is not the case_. We are  _not_  dying. We are  _not_ transforming.”

Of course, Millagre could not tell for certain. Weirder things had happened before. She should have died after striking down the Archdemon ten years ago, but she had not, thanks in part to Morrigan’s magic. A darkspawn had become enlightened, and though Millagre had almost been swayed by his argument for an end to the Blights, she had slain him, too.

In this world of Old Gods and enigmas, the Warden-Commander felt very much out of her element. Nothing would surprise her anymore.

Perhaps they were all dying, after all. She had no evidence to the contrary. Only time would prove or disprove her claim. But she could not entertain this possibilty, not just for her sake but for the sake of her fellow Wardens.

"Not a single Warden in this room was spared. The song began for all at the same time. This is not a coincidence. In fact, this has never happened before, not since the Grey Wardens were founded."

_As far as I know_ , Millagre added mentally.

"It is a safe bet that our brothers and sisters out in the field have heard this, too. They may not understand that it has affected us all. And so to prevent needless sacrifice, I will be riding to Orzammar to deliver the news and prevent any who wrongfully believe it is their time from entering the Deep Roads."

There was a gentle murmur among the Wardens then.

"No-one will depart for the Deep Roads. Ferelden needs her Wardens. Now more than ever. We will resist this Calling, and we will find a way to stop it. From here on, our aim is to seek out and investigate the reasons for hearing this song. Also to fight darkspawn, but that goes without saying.

"We will also send word to Orlais, to the Free Marches, and to Weisshaupt, declaring our intention to combat this and to request assistance for the search.

"I repeat to you, we are not falling to the Blight. Something is causing this. Whatever it is, we will find the source and eliminate it."

Then the Warden-Commander proceeded to divvy up the Wardens into smaller patrols, each with a Senior Warden when possible. This mission called for a change to the usual modus operandi, which usually consisted of scouting and hunting down darkspawn. While that would be involved, the Wardens were to engage in more subtle fact-finding.

Nathaniel Howe frowned as he studied the makeshift roster. “Commander, you and Zevran alone? All the way to Orzammar?”

"A two-week trip at least," said Millagre, arms folded. "Assuming we take mounts."

"Yes, but may I remind you there is a war going on? Between the Mages and the Templars."

Nathaniel regarded her silently, expecting that she might see the obvious caveat to that unit assignment.  Millagre met his gaze, drumming her fingers along her forearm.

"A war which stops soon, we hope."

"We cannot know for certain," said Nathaniel firmly. "You need a third person. Allow me to accompany you."

The Warden Commander exhaled, mulling the idea over. “I need you to stay local, in the vicinity of Amaranthine. It would help coordinate our efforts, and there would be a senior warden around in case something happened. I don’t know it’d be wise to have the Constable along, in case something happens. Which it won’t, but…”

"Why not? Just this morning, we had plans to leave for the Deep Roads."

"That was a little different."

"Millagre," Sigrun interrupted. She had been listening in, as these informal huddles were generally within her purview. "Just let Nate go with you. Three Wardens are better than two—and technically, Zevran isn’t even a Warden."

The Warden-Commander instinctively looked in Zevran’s direction. The elf had engaged the Seneschal in conversation, and was gesturing animatedly with his hands. Varel cracked a smile. Knowing Zevran, they could have been speaking about anything. The man knew more about the world than he let on, had travelled far more in his lifetime than she had, had known many more people.

"He’s still one of us, more or less," Millagre insisted. She focused again on Nathaniel and Sigrun.  

"That’s why I said  _technically_. But you keep putting an emphasis on our being ‘safe’. Why not lead by example? Besides, Nate knows not to encroach on your honeymoon.”

"Ah, I see. He did recently come back from Antiva."

Nathaniel Howe seemed pensive at the thought, or perhaps merely looked pensive simply to provoke a reaction. It worked.

"Wait, that’s not what this is about."

"Are you sure, Commander?" replied Sigrun, her voice loaded with insinuation. "We see those eyes you give him. He’s…not really  _my_  type, but I can see that he’s attractive. You’re worried that Nate being there will get in the way of those things. The impassioned words, the gross staring, the finger-threading, the bodice-ripping…”

Nathaniel seemed embarrassed now, even if he tried to hide it. “Been reading again, Sigrun?”

"Not lately—at least not the ones  **you** are thinking of.”

"If you really wish to come along, then by all means," said Millagre, relenting. "If there are no complications, this should just be a simple meet-and-greet with the King and Royal Ambassador."

The dwarf woman opposite her laughed. “I think you just jinxed the whole operation for everyone, Mills.”

"A dwarf can dream, can’t she?"

With the gentle scritch-scratch of the pen, Warden Howe had begun revising the roster. He paused a moment, considering the previous question, but decided to move on. “The Seneschal is more than capable of seeing to affairs while we are gone, but you could always have your third-in-command stay around the Arling.”

"Yes, let us do that. Change it so that my left hand stays in the vicinity."

"Left hand?" Sigrun snorted, then cleared her throat. "Please. What are you, the Divine?"

"No, but I like the title," said Millagre innocently. "The actual left hand is a good friend of mine."

No-one contested her claim. After all, Warden Stonecipher herself was the Hero of Ferelden. She had met many influential people during the Blight, and many afterwards, as she was occasionally a guest of Queen Anora’s. Still, her stories were—at times—a bit fantastical, though nowhere approaching the legends which had been fabricated about her after the Blight.

"I have put Sigrun down with the first group," Nathaniel said.

"Well, it figures that the left hand does the dirty work." Sigrun nudged Nathaniel with her elbow. "Have fun meeting the King of Orzammar, drinking ale and eating canapés. Also meeting Millagre’s family."

"Millagre’s family?" Warden Howe’s face softened, more gentle and less hardened. His eyes reminded the Warden-Commander of lazurite, in particular that muted, sedating gleam it reflected in the presence of lyrium. "That’s right, you have a nephew. I remember."

"Like you. Though it’s two nephews now," Millagre replied. She rubbed her hands absent-mindedly, as though anxious about some particular issue. "Endrin’s already nine… Almost ten years since the Blight, now. Incredible when you realize how much time’s gone by."

"Say ‘hi’ to Kalah for me," Sigrun chimed in. "If she remembers who I am."

The human rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “Who is Kalah?”

"Millagre’s mom," added the dwarf Warden helpfully. "She asked me to steal liquor for her once. I was eight."

"That is…interesting," said Nathaniel, pausing. "You never mention your family back in Orzammar, Millagre. I was under the impression your mother had died."

Millagre pursed her lips. “She may as well have. I have nothing to say to my mother. I am not going to Orzammar to chat with family members—the Wardens are my family now. That the Ambassador just happens to be my sister makes the process easier, no more and no less.”

She stopped to regard Sigrun, sizing her up. “Take care of things, Sig.”

"Will do. Don’t worry about us, Commander. Besides, to all the humans around here, it will look as though you’d never left."

"Oh, right," said Millagre, ending with a chuckle. "There’s only one female dwarf in the Fereldan Wardens, after all."

"Exactly."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time around. The next will be a bit longer and hopefully we'll start some of the real action.


	3. To Orzammar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden-Commander and her entourage arrive in Orzammar with the intent to save unknowing Wardens from the Deep Roads, but they receive some unpleasant news.

**Ch. 3: To Orzammar**

It was a party of four which rode towards Orzammar: Millagre, Nathaniel, Zevran, and Ser Barksalot. The Warden-Commander had agonized regarding the mabari; he was getting to be an old dog, no longer as spry as he was in his youth. But he, too, had started to fret at the same time as the other Wardens. Whether Ser Barksalot could hear the Calling too, she could not say; it was possible he merely picked up on the nervousness of the others.

He had whined at her, pacing back and forth as she discussed her departure plans with Zevran and the Seneschal. The elf found that it was difficult enough to keep the mabari out of the Commander’s quarters for private time. For him to be separated from Millagre for more than two weeks would greatly stress the animal.

Ser Barksalot loped along at a comfortable pace, tongue hanging out of his mouth. Once in a while, he could not help himself and had to sniff the grass. Millagre kept an eye on the mabari so that he did not fall behind. She would occasionally call out to him, and the mabari would double back, running like an excited pup.

They were making excellent time on horseback, but once they hit Gherlen’s Pass to Orzammar, the mounts might complicate matters. Vigil’s Keep had only started keeping horses within the last couple of years, but the Commander had taken a shine to the animals. She rode a Dalish All-Bred, a young mare with a generally calm disposition, whom Millagre had named “Patches.” The name likely came from the patchwork white-and-brown coloring on the animal.

Though Nathaniel was new to riding himself, he was aware that Patches—along with his own mount—were from humble origins, likely not bred with much thought or highly valued as some were. The nobility took their horses seriously in Ferelden. It tickled his fancy, however, that the Commander of the Grey considered all horses “magnificent,” and could occasionally be seen petting the local draft horse on the muzzle while whispering praises.

"Your riding has improved, Millagre." They had been riding in silence for a while when Nathaniel spoke.  

"You think so?" She glanced over her shoulder at her fellow Warden.

"I do. Don’t you think so, Zevran?"

"Hmm?"

The elf thought back to earlier that afternoon. He had helped to hoist his wife onto the creature’s back. He knew she could clamber onto Patches without assistance when she was motivated, but Millagre always appreciated the boost. Her short legs tended to make for a shorter stride, a shorter reach. In most cases this could be compensated for by extra speed, or extra strength, supplied by two incredibly powerful thighs. He quite liked them, as well as the idea that Millagre could probably smother him to death with them if she so chose.

She had seemed especially ginger that day, he noted. Zevran doubted it was anything he did. But—Nathaniel had commented on the riding, not her thighs, and so he concentrated more on that aspect. He thought she demonstrated excellent control of the animal.

"Oh, yes," he agreed readily. "A far cry from two years ago, when you were trying to stay successfully on top of that pony, yet failing most disastrously."

"Considering my ancestors likely never rode horses, I am surpassing all expectation."

"But I wonder, can you surpass an expectation which never existed?" mused Zevran aloud.

"The expectation existed when I made it so," Millagre said, almost philosophically. "Especially after we were gifted those horses by the Bann."

"Had you never seen a horse until you came to the Surface?" Nathaniel asked then, alight with curiosity. "I have thought about it, and I can’t remember seeing a horse in Orzammar."

"Just in books." The Warden Commander looked ahead now. "Though even books were in short supply. So aside from carvings and engravings, and tales describing knights and warriors, there was nothing. Just brontos."

Two days into their journey, right where the chill winds rushed in from the height of the Frostbacks and the range opened up before them in all its splendor, they came upon two apostates. That they were apostates became evident once Millagre and her company rounded a corner on the path and were nearly obliterated by a blast of fire.

Patches reared, startled, and Millagre clutched tightly at the reins to keep herself atop the animal, fighting to calm the creature.

"Stand down!" cried Nathaniel Howe, who had drawn his bow and had pointed it at the first mage. Zevran imitated this action, but pointed the arrow at the other.  

Ser Barksalot had bared his teeth, snarling and barking, waiting for his command.

It was one young man and one woman, both wearing robes, both carrying staves. The young man wavered in his conviction to keep blasting with magic; the energy around his hand dissipated.

"Are you with those Templars?" he asked suspiciously, all while his hand stretched protectively over his traveling companion.

Zevran Arainai sighed, and he lowered his bow somewhat—though not completely. “Are  _we_  with the Templars? Do you see us emblazoned with the symbol of the Chantry? The Templars? Take a good, long look. The answer is _no_.”

"Could be bounty hunters," sniffed the young mage.

Patches had not bolted, but was shuffling nervously in the snow. Millagre Stonecipher leaned forward to stroke the horse reassuringly, but kept her eyes on the two apostates. She made no move to draw her bow or other weapons. A bloodless encounter was the best kind.

"We are Grey Wardens." Millagre looked down upon them, with an austere mien. The heraldry of the Wardens had been emblazoned on her breastplate, and shone in the daylight.

"Grey Wardens?" repeated the female apostate. She blushed furiously, though her cheeks were already scarlet from the chill. "They can’t be with the Templars."

"Wait, you…" The man scrutinized Millagre in her entirety. "They say the Hero of Ferelden was a dwarf maiden…"

"A dwarf maiden of unsurpassed beauty, and much later, sexual prowess?" The elf assassin could not help but insert himself into the conversation, mostly to get a rise out of his partner. "The woman who dueled the Hero of River Dane and came out on top? The woman who thrust herself and sword into the archdemon, felling it? This is none other than she."

"Zevran," Nathaniel said with a touch of warning.

The apostates gawked—the male especially—as he beheld her face. Millagre was feeling less than legendary on that morning, as she had only given herself a cursory face wash. Her helmet hid hair in dire need of brushing and re-configuring.

"Everything we’ve heard, then…"

"Completely true," she finished for him.

"Even that thing about the female pirate?"

” _Eric_!” scolded the female apostate. Zevran’s grin was about to encompass the whole of his face, and Millagre could feel it—feel him grinning, could imagine him in her mind’s eye.

"A fabrication," Nathaniel answered, his eyes cold. He thought it improper not to defend the reputation of his Commander—and by extension, his Order. "Our companion here was joking about that part."

"However, I know exactly of whom you speak," said the Warden-Commander slowly. "We played a game of Wicked Grace, but nothing more."

Eric the Apostate seemed disappointed, but merely nodded.

"Commander," said the woman then. "Our apologies for earlier. It was an honor to meet you. We must be going, but be aware, there are Templars on the road."

"We will look out for them. Stone guide you."

The Warden-Commander watched as the two collected themselves and left, their staves leaving small scratches in the earth. She noted they were careful not to walk fully on the path, but rather follow at its side. Millagre doubted this would help them against the Templars, but it did provide better opportunities to hide.

They resumed their journey, bringing the horses into a trot. The terrain would worsen soon, slowing their travel immensely, and likely force them to walk beside their mounts for a time.

"How can you say such things?" Warden Howe asked finally, his own Dalish mount riding in time with Zevran’s.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"It is fine to speak of the Commander’s heroism and good qualities, to praise them for others. But otherwise…"

"Ah, yes, but is sexual prowess not a good quality?"

"It suggests that the Commader is…promiscuous."

"Ah, a loaded word, that. Would it be a problem if she were?"

"I’m right here, gentlemen," Millagre said without turning her head. "I suppose I will pretend not to hear either of you discussing my love life."

"Apologies, Commander." Nathaniel cleared his throat. "It is just, none of those things are true."

"No? And how do you know they are not?" Zevran posed. "Unless of course she has shared with you such intimate details, which stories are true and which are not. In which case you should probably tell me, as it means she likely fancies you."

Nathaniel Howe attempted to keep a straight face. From having known Zevran on and off, you often had two choices: withstand the teasing, or play along. “And if she did?”

"Well, we would have to discuss this," said Zevran with some amount of seriousness. "The traditions in Orzammar have some similarities with those in Orlais, you might notice. The dwarves regularly take mistresses, but I am sure there are some noble women who will take second husbands, or male concubines. And Millagre is noble, now."

"Er," said Nathaniel. "I think we have long strayed from the original topic."

"Have we? Well, the plural marriage is a very uncommon thing here in Ferelden," said Zevran, laughing. "We can return to the topic later, if you like."

"No, but thank you."

Millagre had pulled back on the reins, effectively parting the two men in her charge. Zevran rode on her left, Nathaniel on her right. “Nate’s right, you know. As funny as some of the smutty manuscripts you find are, these rumors do not need to be acknowledged.”

Zevran’s face was difficult to read, but he nodded in affirmation. “As you wish, my dear.”

…

An indeterminate amount of time later, which was half an hour but seemed much longer for all the riding and familiar scenery the four of them had endured, they came upon five Templars, no doubt searching out the two apostates. They had regarded the Wardens with some suspicion also, then sought to interrogate the Warden-Commander for answers, not only regarding the Wardens’ business at Gherlen’s Pass but also about the rebel mages.

Millagre then pointed across the stream at an adjacent mountain, which would have been south from their current position, and mentioned seeing two figures climbing along the sides.  _But I cannot confirm that they were your apostates_ , she said.

The Templars thanked them, then proceeded to head in the direction she had indicated.

Nathaniel Howe swept some hair from his face, pulled his hood closer as he watched them march into the Frostbacks. “You lied to them.”

"I did." Millagre did not seem particularly bothered by the statement.

"The man said the mages had killed two of their own."

"That I don’t doubt," replied the Warden-Commander. "Impossible to know the circumstances, though. Best for everyone if they don’t meet at all. Maybe the Conclave will sort this whole mess out."

"And one very large mess it is," remarked Zevran, sighing. "Maker be on their side."

…

The rest of the journey passed without incident, though the Wardens had the added complication of caring for their horses on some cold nights. On one evening, when the clouds covered the sky and let forth a barrage of ice pellets, preceded only by slightly less frozen precipitation, the three of them had been forced to sleep crowded together in the same tent. The other shelter had been given to their horses. The end result was tangled limbs, and at least one of them had hit another with a stray hand during the night.

Millagre smelled strongly of mabari by the time they reached Orzammar, as did the others (especially Ser Barksalot), but the warmth of the underground city greatly enhanced their mood so that these minor discomforts hardly mattered.

They entered Orzammar on horseback, the griffon symbol on her chest proudly reflecting the ambient firelight. The Wardens had always been a spectacle—Millagre doubly so, as she was the only living Paragon—but the animals added a touch of mystery and awe. Patches must have seemed quite magnificent when there was naught to compare her to but brontos.

The Calling was ever present at the edge of their minds, however. Millagre knew that they must not delay, that they could rest when they had concluded their business with Ambassador Stonecipher. But the song seemed a little stronger than before, and she wondered idly whether that had to do with their proximity to the Deep Roads.

"To the Diamond Quarter!" she said, directing their animals. "Let us be polite, but try to talk to as few people as possible."

After they had waded through an informal gathering of commoners, merchants, and nobles, their group found tethering and care for their mounts and proceeded on foot to the Royal Palace. Zevran had been here before—many times—but Nathaniel had only been in the Diamond Quarter briefly, and therefore was captivated by the splendor and stonework. The previous Deep Roads excursion he had been on happened in the Free Marches, to the old thaig uncovered by Anathemus Hawke and two members of the Dwarven Merchants Guild. He had been with young Carver then.

Nathaniel wondered briefly what Weisshaupt would do if all of them had heard the Calling. Carver Hawke had been sent up there on training some months past, and would likely be at the mercy of the First Warden.

He hoped they possessed the same sense that Millagre did, and he realized that she, too, must be worried about Warden Hawke.

They did not have to wait long once inside the Palace. The Ambassador saw all four of them immediately. Once inside the office, Millagre found herself pulled into an enthusiastic embrace by her sister, Rica. The Warden gave her older sister a responding hug, and a pat on the shoulder.

"Oh, Millie," she said affectionately, using her sister’s childhood nickname, then laughed.  "You smell like… I don’t even know."

"Well, we can’t all smell like rosewater and sandalwood." Her first instinct was to say  _An Orlesian prostitute_ , but Millagre chided herself for the thought. She did not want to turn into Loghain version two, after all, even if the man had his good points.

"I suppose not." Rica laughed in a most upright, noble manner. It was not an affected laugh, per se, but did not reflect the image Millagre had of her sister. She turned her attention to her sister’s companions then, studying Nathaniel Howe and then moving over to Zevran.

"Ah, I thought I recognized you. Zevran, wasn’t it?"

Rica stepped foward to greet him, and the elf was struck by how much she resembled Millagre. The Ambassador was the older sister—she must have been approaching forty—but the years had been kind, and the lifestyle gentle. She was devoid of scars, her hair more fiery and less auburn, and she was painted, bedecked with jewelry and brass buttons. Zevran studied her covertly, intrigued by the similarities, and supposed this is what his wife might have been like had she not been a Grey Warden.

"Yes, that is me. A pleasure, Rica," he greeted her, smiling broadly and bowing slightly. "I certainly remember you. The last time we met, your mother threw a stone jug at me and threatened to call the guard."

"What?" Nathaniel Howe, bemused, was starting to sketch a mental portrait of Kalah Stonecipher was, and he certainly hoped he had painted her in the wrong colors.  

"That was an unfortunate event." Rica sighed, looking apologetic. "Mother has had some years to rethink her behavior. But we can discuss that later. In fact, I would prefer if we did, perhaps over dinner."

"Maybe," said Millagre, unconvinced.

The Ambassador turned her attention towards the remaining non-mabari Warden. “Your name, Serah?”

"Nathaniel Howe, my lady," he said, crossing his arms in greeting.

"It’s Warden-Constable," added Millagre. "This is Rica Stonecipher, royal ambassador of Orzammar and also my sister. Though you know that already, I think."

"Charmed," was Nathaniel’s laconic reply. Rica seemed quite enchanted, or at least momentarily distracted, by the human.

"Grey Wardens are always a welcome sight here, as you well know. But I didn’t think to see another one so soon."

"Another one?" Millagre had folded her arms, shifting her weight onto her hip. "When did you last see this Warden?"

"Oh, well, I assumed you knew, since you are the  _Warden-Commander_. The man came the other day and he invoked his right for an escort to the Deep Roads. Said it was his turn to die, though I found it strange that no other Wardens came along for the send-off. He left this morning.”

"Shit." She gritted her teeth. "Sorry, language. Was he Orlesian?"

Rica knitted her eyebrows, much in the way that Millagre did when she became concerned, and side-eyed her sister. “Definitely Fereldan,” she said. “It was Alistair.”


	4. La danza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It appears that the Calling affects more than just the Vigil's Keep Wardens.

(One Month Ago)

The soiree in Redcliffe was a modest affair, reserved for a handful of nobles and private guests, but she had been there. The Hero of Ferelden. Alistair was not quite sure what he had expected after so many years, but it was not the legend-become-reality as she appeared that evening. Somewhere along the way, Millagre had gotten the message to “Play the Game” so far as it was played in Ferelden.

The Warden Commander was the poster child for  _Warrior chic_. She bore a wingéd tiara, its purpose ornamental in nature, for it framed her short auburn hair, evoking the image of the griffon. Her gleaming golden pauldrons had been forged to look like lion’s claws. Her dress was as black as the blight, and though it swept to the floor, the slits in the sides ran all the way to the upper thigh.

There was no immediate skin showing, of course, due to the existence of long boots, but the design was provocative by some conservative Fereldan standards. The Orlesians, on the other hand, would have been much more concerned about the garish adornments.

When Alistair spied her across the banquet hall, he could scarcely believe it was the same girl he had known. The one whom he had both loved and hated with the entirety of his being, who had once been his reason for combating the Blight and then his reason for leaving, his first and yet final. He felt for years that she had betrayed him before he realized he had betrayed her just as well. The intensity of his emotions had quelled, as much as from time as from maturity, but matters felt unfinished. There had been no closure, no words other than letters.

Alistair had wanted to approach her, wanted to say… _something_. Anything, really, at this point. So much time had elapsed that any reunion would be awkward, and he knew that. But what would he say? When the wounds were fresh, he often considered something along the lines of ’ _So you decided to spare that murderer, how’s that working out for you?’_  But that decision was long past, and Loghain had been a Grey Warden for more years than he. Alistair felt ashamed to think of it.

More importantly, what is it that he wanted from her? What could exist between them now, and what would Millagre think?

Years ago, after he had learned of her marriage to none other than Zevran Arainai (Zevran! Of all the people in Thedas! Arainai!), he had gotten drunk and written her an ill-advised letter. Afterwards, the letters were a great deal more formal, and scarce. Pleasantries at best, particularly on his Name-Day, which Millagre remembered. She had sent him a mabari miniature, one she likely carved herself.

Strange as it was, the carving was what prompted the idea to talk to her. Alistair had turned it over in his fingers, feeling its smoothness, and could picture her whittling away at it on a sunny afternoon. Perhaps she had thought of him as she made it.

If that was the case, there might be hope in salvaging what was left of their friendship. Friendship sounded like a good start, something to work towards. Alistair wasn’t certain he wanted anything further than that anyway, even if Zevran weren’t a thorn in her side.

But then he watched her across the room, had seen her offer her hand to Arl Teagan, who was hesitant at first. Some words were exchanged, and then the Arl had the musicians change music. What might have otherwise been a chaste social dance became something more…sensual. Alistair had not spent his years becoming more cultured, but he knew immediately that the harmony originated in Antiva.

Teagan Guerrin had been an Orlesian ambassador and had studied courtly dances, so he was not caught entirely unprepared as the dwarf woman escorted him to the floor (though he was not dragging his feet by any means). The height differential did not seem to be much of an issue, or if it was, then neither dancer showed it. After they laced their fingers together, Millagre and Teagan began a tango.

What followed was a series of highly expressive movements, bodies–and sometimes faces–close together. Alistair found himself wondering why Millagre was unable to make up her mind about what to do with her leg. It reminded him distantly of how Morrigan used to electrocute all the giant spiders they came across, which would fall on their backs, legs twitching.

There was an audible murmur from the guests as the Warden Commander hooked her leg around Teagan’s as he dipped her towards the floor. As the dance wore on, Teagan grew bolder and more liberal with manipulating her body, and Millagre seemed more pliant and trusting.

Alistair began to ponder, seriously, who or what Millagre had become. There was an immediate contradiction in the image he remembered and what he was seeing. Someone who was once uncomfortable with the spotlight had transformed into someone who was not afraid of the limelight. Then another idea occurred to the former Warden–one which he had not before considered, yet now could see plainly.

Zevran’s influence bled out of her every movement, and Alistair felt simultaneously aroused and yet repulsed. He wanted to both watch and look away. Though they were not professionals, they were not amateurs.

Alistair watched as the Arl’s hand molded to the gentle curve of the Commander’s stomach, guiding her, holding her up against him. How her hand brushed against his beard, albeit unintentionally. He could imagine Teagan’s breath on her neck, could imagine those dusky, half-lidded eyes thinking about more than just a simple dance.

It was rumored that Teagan had attempted to court her after the Blight, but his proposal was politely declined. Yet even then, the two of them had maintained an amicable relationship. Alistair was not quite sure what the relationship entailed, only that it involved quite a few letters. Now he rather wondered if the friendship involved something else.

Yet Teagan (his “sort of” uncle) was an honorable man, and Millagre, too, was honorable. Mostly. By Andraste, the latter was  _married_. Wasn’t she? It bothered him to think about it. The possibility that they might be… _bedfellows_? It was preposterous. If two people he respected could change so suddenly, what could he possibly hold sacred?

And suddenly, Alistair found himself feeling quite alone in the world, lacking in the resolve to face her. He was a fool to think that things could go back to the way they were.

And before they had even finished, Alistair had turned and walked out.

* * *

 

Hours of combat had taken their toll. The warriors had ventured into the Deep Roads that morning, and it had been the better part of the day. So Alistair guessed; though without the sun above, he could not be sure just how much time had elapsed. Either way, he felt dead tired, and now stopped against an old, crumbling pillar. Freshly slain darkspawn lay bleeding out mere feet from him.

“Where’s the Grey Warden stamina we all heard so much about?”

It was Mainar who addressed him now. Alistair looked upon the dark-haired dwarf, his face visible in the light of the lyrium crystals in the wall. He was older–a veteran of several campaigns–and a highly cynical individual. His beard was caked in blood and dirt, after a fall he and one lucky darkspawn had taken earlier. One of the recruits had sliced its head off, essentially covering the man in tainted blood.

“Oh, it’s there. Here.”  _Somewhere_ , thought Alistair tiredly. “Ever heard of pacing yourself? I mean, why be in such a rush to die? Sure, that’s the goal and everything, but why not make it count and take out  **even more** darkspawn. Am I right?”

The dwarf scrutinized him carefully, the same judging expression he used every time Alistair would attempt humor. Alistair wondered if most dwarven men were always so serious, as the ones in his current party were none too talkative. He realized then that he rather preferred the company of someone like Oghren. He never thought he would miss Oghren and all that his presence entailed (the ale-swilling breath, embarrassing antics, and terrible pick-up lines, to name a few), but he could use the levity.

“He has a point,” said one of the recruits–a much younger, and very stout, dwarf, with near jet-black hair and soft eyes. Alistair vaguely remembered his name, Pygrin.  

“You see?” Alistair raised his eyebrows at Mainar. “Someone agrees with me.”

“Strange, though.” Pygrin leaned on his warhammer, taking advantage of the break. “For someone who came here to die, you do not seem that keen on it.”

“Stalling, more like,” said Mainar critically.

“Stalling, am I?” Alistair huffed indignantly. “Well, excuse me for not throwing myself at the first darkspawn sword. If you don’t like it, then…”

“Then?”

“Er,” said Alistair, as the usual ’ _Then you can leave_ ’ threat was not something he particularly wanted to suggest, when he had gone out of his way to request their attendance to begin with. “You’ll just have to live with it, I suppose.”

“ _Live_  being the operative word,” growled the dark-eyed veteran. “Your swordsmanship is fair, Ser Warden, but the more we keep on into these Deep Roads, the harder it will be to keep these greenhorns alive. That is if the Blight does not kill us all first.”

The statement gave the Warden pause. It failed to occur to him that these dwarves had not built up an immunity to the Taint as he had. But it was possible to contract Blight sickness merely by touching it. The thought made him feel a little bad, actually. Was it right for a dead man to force the others to die with him, merely because he was afraid of the inevitable?

“Greenhorns? I’m a Lieutenant, I’ll have you know,” volunteered the next dwarf. He was fair of face and hair, and unlike his counterparts was completely clean-shaven.

“Shut up, Everd.”

“I’ve fought  _hordes_  of darkspawn,” Everd insisted. “Hordes, now.”

Mainar rolled his eyes. The human idiot was enough, but the officer had little patience for a second (idiot, that is). “Three is hardly a horde.”

Pygrin tilted his head. “We can keep ourselves alive, which is the important thing,” he said, scratching idly at his own chin-scruff. “It’s not how many darkspawn we’ve killed–that’s beside the point. It’s that we’ve killed them all  _so far_.”

“That’s what someone who has barely killed any darkspawn  _would_  say,” sighed Everd, removing his helmet. Sweat had caused his blond curls to become plastered against his scalp, and the helmet was not designed with maximum air flow in mind. He looked sympathetically at Mainar, as if to say,  _Greenhorns–am I right_?

Eventually the dwarves acquiesced to Alistair’s insistence on taking a break, and they segregated themselves accordingly. Mainar was on edge, so he gave himself guard duty. Meanwhile, Alistair had crumpled pathetically against the same pillar he was before. His mind wandered among several thoughts of self-pity before Pygrin ambled over.

“Mind if I join you, Ser Warden?”

“Yes, I’d rather be alone and have no-one to distract me from my impending death, thank you.”

The dwarf paused, not responding right away. Alistair sighed and straightened.

“That was sarcasm.”

“I know it was,” said the man calmly.

Alistair opened his mouth to respond, then sighed. “Ah. You seemed puzzled, so I couldn’t be sure.”

“My face appears that way when I am in thought. So I’ve been told.”

“Lucky for you it’s only once a while,” quipped the Warden. “I’ve been told I always look that way. The woman who said that wasn’t exactly a nice person, however.”

Pygrin’s mouth shifted slightly, but it formed neither a smile nor frown. He was sitting across from Alistair.

“You are very young still,” he said after a while.

“Young? Not  _that_  young.” Alistair looked over the dwarf. “I doubt you’re that much older.”

“No? Hard to tell with humans, I’m afraid. You’re more angular, yet mostly hairless.”

“Hairless?” The Warden self-consciously felt at his chin, though his gauntlets impeded his sense of touch. “I’m not hairless. Do you see this stubble? Only a man would be able to grow this.”  
  
“Some of our women would be able to grow  _that_ ,” Pygrin said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, now you’re exaggerating.”

“Even the Living Paragon could grow a proud chin-patch, so they say.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes, attempting to recall Millagre in finer detail. He had not seen her in quite some time, but he could not recall her possessing a beard or even stubble. She did have hair, and not just on her head, but nowhere unexpected.

“Let’s not speak about beards.”

“As you wish, Ser Warden.”

“What were you saying earlier, about being young?”

“You are young to be facing death,” said Pygrin. “I don’t claim to know all the secrets of Wardenhood, but sending a man to his death like this…well, when we do the same thing in Orzammar, it’s usually to a criminal.”

The Warden’s eye twitched.

“I don’t know about humans, but if a man is to face death, we send him off in as spectacular a way as possible. Celebration. Not uncommon for the terminally ill to drink themselves into the next world, surrounded by equally drunk friends and relatives.”

“I like drinking as well as the next man–” said Alistair, grimacing at the thought of his past history of alcoholism. “But I think you lot overdo it a bit.”

“Not everyone.” Pygrin smiled and offered him a flask. “Still. Couldn’t help but notice your Warden friends aren’t here to do it in the proper Orzammar way.”  
  
Alistair stared at the flask, struck by the consideration the dwarf was showing. He had left his friends behind, had taken his leave of Teagan, and left only a letter in his wake to explain the situation. No-one knew he was there. No one would know for some time. What would his sort-of-uncle think when he heard the news?

He felt like crying, but that would be completely unmanly, and Alistair was nothing if not a  _man_.

So he took the flask and drank from it, expecting a throat-constricting, burning hard liquor. Yet Alistair was pleasantly surprised to find that it was a sweet wine instead, something gentle which might be served at a banquet.

The Warden swallowed it down, and for the first time in the past several hours, he smiled a genuine smile.

“Not what I was expecting,” he said. “First dwarf I met, she refused to drink. Second dwarf I met, he drank himself under the table nightly. I haven’t met anyone in-between since then.”

“The first one being Lady Stonecipher?” Pygrin pressed.

“Sounds strange to call her like that,” sighed Alistair. “She’d’ve objected to being called lady, back then.”

“Back then?”

“When we first met, I mean,” Alistair corrected himself. He politely handed the flask back.

“But it’s a term of respect.”

“She was kind of an awkward tomboy and a staunch supporter of trousers. Not ladies’ wear either, just straight-legged breeches, that sort of thing. Leliana tried to get her into a dress a few times, once for the Landsmeet. Millagre said, ‘Yes, but plate armor is far more shiny’. Worked out for her in the end, though.”

Alistair sighed, deciding to avoid the topic of the duel again Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, who was–as far as he knew–still a Warden. If he was still alive.

“Anyway. Complete teetotal, that one. Never really the life of the party.”

“No?”

“If you knew Millagre like I did, you’d know she’d rather blend in rather than stand out.”

“Huh,” said Pygrin. “Doesn’t sound like the stories. ”

“Stories are just that - stories. At least the really entertaining ones.”

The dwarf offered him another drink from the flask. Alistair debated on whether or not to decline, but decided to accept another draught or two.

“Why’d you join the Wardens?”

The question had an easy answer.

 _Because of Duncan_.

The more he studied Pygrin, the more Alistair saw a faint resemblance to Duncan. The beard was much the same, as were the eyes. Like a short Duncan, except with a whiter face and a dwarf nose. Though the more Alistair considered the similarities, the more he realized how very faint his memory of Duncan’s face had become. The man’s voice, too. He found the thought painful to dwell on.

What would Duncan have thought of him, if he were still alive today?

“I was what you might call a…willing conscript.”

“Isn’t that a little bit of a paradox?”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly say I was free to volunteer.” Alistair scratched the back of his neck. “I was given to the service of the Chantry and was training as a Templar at the time.”

“A Templar?” This piqued the dwarf’s interest, and he leaned forward. “You must have opinions on the whole war going on.”

“I do, yes. But that’s a different matter altogether. I’m…a Warden now, not a Templar. We are supposed to be apolitical. Even if the mages  _are_  out of line somewhat.”

Pygrin hummed appreciatively.

“I apologize, but what is your name again?”

“Pygrin,” the dwarf said.

“Okay, so.  _Pygrin._ Why did you choose to join…” Alistair waved his hand about vaguely, as though searching for the proper term. “…Bhelen’s personal army?”

“Hm. Same reason that any other starry-eyed novice might have joined during the Blight.”

The Warden pursed his lips, uncertain. “Because of…the darkspawn threat?”

“Each citizen helps in their own way. Before this, I was an armorer. It was a family business. I did what I can, but debts are debts. A member of the Merchants’ Guild bought us out, rebranded us. I could choose to work for them, or…seek my fortune elsewhere.”

“Did you dislike smithing?”

The dark-haired dwarf scratched his chin. “No. Officially, I like to say I was…inspired by the Paragon.”

“Ah.”

“You may not understand… At that time, Warden Stonecipher had returned to, and left Orzammar… Stories of her winning not just one, but two, Provings…changing the course of politics…surviving the Deep Roads and becoming the Warden-Commander of Ferelden…”

“With some help,” Alistair added grumpily. He had been present for the excursion into the Deep Roads and remembered the events quite clearly.

Though he supposed the legends would forget about him, particularly in Orzammar.

Alistair, the would-be King of Ferelden. Alistair, the bastard son of King Maric. Alistair the Deserter. Alistair, lover of the Great Hero of Ferelden.

The dwarves were, unsurprisingly, ignorant of the last title. Or if they were not, they pretended they were. The Shaperate made no mention of any scandals.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, uh, I originally wrote the first part not intending to include it in the fic and then I thought...well, why not? Even though it feels a bit absurd and the whole thing is looking more like a soap opera. Ah, well.


	5. Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mills and Zev have a tiny argument and Nathaniel really feels like the third wheel. As Grey Wardens are generally immune to the Taint, they do not have much to fear in places where corruption has spread. But not everyone is a Warden.

Once they had been granted official access to the Deep Roads, and had traversed a distance that would prevent their being overheard by the guardsmen, Millagre stopped. Nathaniel quickly did the same, and stepped back in time to avoid her torch as she wheeled about. The Commander looked at him apologetically, then traded glances between him and Zevran.

“Before we go any farther…”

She trailed off, hesitating to voice her decision. Millagre always hated that part about leading. It would always be up to her to make the decisions no-one else wanted to make, or ones which would be disagreed with.

“Hmm?”

Zevran held his own torch aloft. His attention was divided, some of it reserved for what lay ahead of them in the deep dark. He could not know there were no darkspawn nearby, as he did not have the stain in his blood. With any luck, he would remain that way.

“Zev, I need you to stay behind.”

The elf paused, then directed his full attention to Millagre. “Ah, do excuse me, my dear. I don’t think I heard you correctly. What was that?”

“You heard me. The Deep Roads are no place for you.”

His smile was strange, a holding-back-annoyance sort of smile, or at the very least a conflicted one.

“They are a place for no rational creature,  _cariño_. Might I remind you that I have been in the Deep Roads before?”

“Yes, on a few  **rare**  occasions. But now is not the time to chance it.  _Especially_ now.”

“And now you are concerned? Now, of all times? Did you not agree to my coming along with you to the Frostbacks?”

“I did,” said Millagre tersely. “And you were good company, make no mistake. We were glad to have you. Isn’t that right?”

She looked first to Ser Barksalot, the mabari. His tail began to wag immediately when he caught his master’s attention, and he barked excitedly. Then Millagre looked to her second-in-command..

Nathaniel Howe had been attempting to stay out of the conversation, and was feigning interest in the relative darkness of the tunnel rather than in what was being said. He noticed now that the Commander sought his input, which gave him pause. Then cleared his throat politely.

“Zevran is an asset on any team. He is as fine as any Warden–” When the dark-haired man saw the mischievous twinkle in the elf’s eye, he made sure to clarify, so as to remove any hint of innuendo.  _Not that that would stop him_ , thought Nathaniel. “–in battle, in the field, and in character. He also brings a unique perspective in looking at the world.”

“Have you always been such a flatterer?” Zevran sighed wistfully.

He could admit that he had harbored a small crush on Warden-Constable Howe for some time. Zevran found that the Wardens were a dour lot, generally-speaking, and was pleased to find that Nathaniel had a surprising amount of humor, even so. Said humor was dark at times, but when faced with the absurdity and grimness of reality, what better response was there than to laugh?

He was under no illusion that Nathaniel would entertain the idea. Even if the man had a preference for handsome elves, Nathaniel’s sense of honor prevented him from meddling in the Warden-Commander’s personal affairs. Not to mention the more pressing issue of betraying the Warden-Commander herself. That, and Zevran never broke contracts.

Well, except for that  _one_ time.

“So Nate agrees. We’ve done well to make it here unscathed, and we made it because we had each other. Good job, us.”

“But doesn’t that argue  _for_  Zevran’s position?”

“Well, if it were anywhere else. Here, there is one major caveat–we cannot control the spread of the Blight. We cannot control the darkspawn. Having you with us in a close-quarters situation could be disastrous. One cut is all it could take, one cut–on the cheek, on your hand, doesn’t matter–could become infected with Blight sickness.”

“I have been cut in the Deep Roads before,” said the assassin casually. “Did not catch it then. And I’ve been covered in darkspawn blood. Quite liberally, I might add, and not just in Denerim. And I have yet to catch it from my wife.”

The Warden-Constable narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “I am not sure it works that way…?”

“But how do you know for sure?” pressed Zevran, raising his eyebrows. “If it is spread through contact with blood, then maybe it is spread in other ways, yes? Other bodily fluids, perhaps?”

“Are you saying the Blight is a form of venereal disease?”

“The Blight is not a form of VD,” said Millagre steadfastly. “And I have never heard about transmission between Wardens and non-Wardens. We’re getting away from the topic now–”

“Ah, yes. The topic where you think I will catch the Blight and then die a horrible, agonizing death. It is possible, no? But there are places far more dangerous in this world. The Orlesian Court is one such place; just ask Warden Mac Tir about it. Also, our last adventure in Antiva.”

Some years back, Warden-Commander Stonecipher took leave from the Fereldan Wardens to travel northward to Antiva. She allegedly looked into starting a Warden Chapter in said country, but was summoned back prematurely by Queen Anora for undisclosed reasons. Nathaniel had never been privy to the whole story, but his guess was that the Commander had gotten into some political trouble. She had managed to recruit two Wardens while there, however.

“This isn’t a discussion, Zev. It’s an order.”

Millagre had dug her heels in, figuratively-speaking.

“You are ordering me to stay here? Twiddle my thumbs, yes? Imagine you both being dismembered terribly as I sit and wait?”

Ser Barksalot cocked his head to the side curiously. Zevran sighed and folded his arms as he stared down at the war mabari. 

“Ah, I do forget. You, too, would suffer disembowelment. So do not feel left out, hm?” 

Nathaniel remained calm. “We aim to avoid that fate.'

Zevran bristled then, and it was obvious he was quite frustrated.

“Millagre, I am going  _with you_.” He punctuated the statement with hand movements. “You cannot order me around like you can Nathaniel. I am not a lowly recruit, I am your  _husband_. Who is also a very  _talented_  assassin. An assassin who is very sharp on that particular skillset just now. There is no discussion, I will be accompanying you.”

The dwarf woman did not flinch, she remained rooted to the spot, staring back at him in defiance. Zevran found her stubbornness endearing (until it wasn’t).

“You are still under our employ officially,” she reminded him. “Nathaniel, back me up.”

“Now you are dragging the poor man into this. I think there is a clause in Fereldan law somewhere about talking under duress, no?”

Warden-Constable Howe inhaled as he took a moment to consider both sides. “Zevran is technically employed by the Grey Wardens on a contractual basis, though he is not a Warden. How much that binds him to the chain of command is up for dispute. I don’t know, Commander…” He rubbed his temple briefly and sighed. “Blight sickness  **is**  a danger, but if he wants to come along, I cannot speak against it. The threat to his person can be minimized.”

“Andraste’s flaming beard, Nate.” Millagre pursed her lips and shook her head. “How, then?”

“By using a ranged weapon,” continued the Warden. “We brought bows for a reason. Zevran and I shall aid you from afar, and it should reduce the likelihood of his coming into contact with actual darkspawn. Assuming we find darkspawn.”

Millagre scratched her wrist, or at least the part uncovered by her armor. “It’s the Deep Roads. There will be darkspawn, so count on it.”

“Using a bow rather than daggers…” Zevran thought over his choice, ran a tongue over his teeth, then clapped his hands together. “All right, a compromise it is, then. I will promise not to use daggers unless the situation gets particularly hairy. And  _you,_ old man _…_ ”

The elf turned his attention and pointed to the beast. “You must pull your weight on the front line. Particularly if I am not to be there.”

Ser Barksalot growled determinedly.

“Fine.” Millagre acquiesced, though grudgingly. “At best, we’ll return with one more man. At worst, we will return much as we are now. I will accept no other possibilities.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter. I'm debating on whether or not to post several smaller "chapters" or one much longer chapter, though strictly speaking I kind of consider these parts of chapters. I don't know, we'll see!


	6. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Alistair runs into some trouble with Darkspawn

How many miles had it been now? Alistair was not certain, and it was impossible to count. Once in a while he would ask one of the dwarves for the time, then he would estimate distance based on average walking pace. This was likely inaccurate, but it was something. The tunnels were unnerving, always either dark or aglow with lyrium, there was no inbetween. Alistair tried to imagine how the sky might look in the late afternoon, tried to imagine a soft breeze touching his face, attempted to remember the wind’s sigh and not that  _bloody dreadful song_  which sang to him.

Pygrin asked him why the obsession with time, but as soon as he asked the question he seemed to understand. But he did not understand. It was more than counting down seconds until death. (It was more than just the hope that they would not come upon any darkspawn before the end of the day, forcing them to set up camp.)

None of them were surface dwarves. They lived and died without ever seeing the sun. Alistair lamented the fact that he probably wouldn’t see it again, either.

And suddenly he wanted to see it more than anything–the sun, and more importantly, its setting. These items were mundane before.

_Chill Fereldan wind against her cheek, stroking her hair. Feet bare on the grassy hill, digging into the moss. Soft amber eyes, large black pupils, looking. Looking at me._

_Her lips moving, speaking a voice almost forgotten._

_How can you stare at the sun? she seems to say. It’s painful._

_Well you don’t stare at the sun,_   _he answers–must have answered. Generally you avoid looking directly at it._

_Oh, so that’s normal._

_Yes, it’s normal. Hair is sort of copper, never noticed it before. Not as fiery as Leliana’s, more tame. Small ties in her hair, tiny braids. Looking away again, back towards the sun._

A single moment, suspended in time, buried deep within his memory. Alistair found it strange how it still seemed to exist, yet no longer did. He blinked away the thought when he felt a prickling in his skin, and an ebb of warning in the back of his mind.

Alistair had been partially leading the group due to this affinity (though the others had been painstakingly mapping their course, so as to avoid trouble in returning to Orzammar).

“Careful,” he murmured. “There are some up ahead.”

Only steps later, they began to see the spread of the Blight along the tunnel. A glutinous layer of dark ooze clung to the earth, smelling vaguely of rot and decay. Alistair wrinkled his nose; he could almost taste it. They proceeded carefully and avoided the material when they could, but they were unable to avoid stepping in it completely.

The tunnel widened, and they could see the Blight dripping slowly from the walls and into soft indentations in the rock to form thick coagulated pools. The sensation of darkspawn beat louder in Alistair’s mind, and he knew without a doubt that they lay beyond. There were more than a few–he could not tell how many–but hopefully not too many for the group to handle.

He motioned for them to be cautious, then he dimmed his lantern as a precaution.

The tunnel widened as they crept through its mouth and into a larger cavern. Lyrium crystals were arranged in peculiar formations in and around stalactites far above them, and lyrium-infused rock glittered faintly against the lantern light. The glow was welcome, but not enough to see clearly. Alistair pressed himself against a rock wall and listened for sounds of darkspawn while the other dwarves waited cautiously.

Across the cavern, he heard a rock fall some immeasurable distance into a shallow pool, where it made a splash.

His heart quickened. An engagement was imminent if they passed through this area. Walking blindly might be treacherous (it would be embarrassing to die on one’s Calling by falling from a great height, and not from a darkspawn sword). Entering the cavern with full lanterns would immediately call upon all the darkspawn in the vicinity, however.

Alistair pushed his head out again, observing carefully, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He saw a dark shape skulking against the far wall, apparent only as it moved in front of a lyrium vein.

Then something was upon him.

The Warden dropped his lantern, and subsequently stumbled over it as the dark shape slashed against his chest plate. The noise must have alerted the rest of its kind, for a chorus of shrill cries erupted then. Alistair tried to fight back panic as he threw his arm over his face to deflect another oncoming blow from a darkspawn he could not quite recognize.

The sound of the creature’s wrist-blade scraping along his gauntlet was chilling.

The dwarves came to his aid then. Pygrin’s hammer connected with the creature and sent it flying, giving Alistair a moment to recover and then draw his sword.  It had been a Shriek, the kind of darkspawn infamous for ambushing men without warning, and quite possibly Alistair's least favorite.

“Thank you.” Alistair nodded, taking a breath.

The dark-haired dwarf shook his head. “The time for thanks will come later, Ser Warden.”

Their lanterns provided just enough light to see into the immediate area, but not into the entirety of the cavern. A swarm of genlocks were charging at them now, and Alistair could perceive even more movement in his peripheral vision. He readied his blade, then stepped out to greet one of the darkspawn with it.

The sword’s force collapsed the genlock’s clavicle, and the weapon dug into the side of the creature’s neck, right in the hole in its crude armor. It howled in exquisite pain, and cut its hands as it tried to remove the blade from this area. Another genlock came in from Alistair’s dead side, away from his shield.

He could not extricate the sword from the creature in front of him, so in desperation Alistair threw up a leg and kicked the advancing genlock back into the wall.  This bought him some time, enough for him to pull his sword from the mortally wounded darkspawn directly in front of him, but the stunned creature lunged at him again.

When Alistair shifted his attention, he must have allowed a small opening to form. Yet another genlock came upon him. The Warden bashed it with his shield, parrying the other’s attack almost simultaneously with his blade. With the quick maneuvering of his wrist, Alistair brought the blade upright and swung it down again, cutting across the darkspawn diagonally. A great gash extending from shoulder to hip erupted, spilling black ichor, yet did not deter it.

Without thinking he twisted the blade once more, his muscle memory taking over. The blade swept from the floor and upward, severing the tender flesh which held the darkspawn’s intestines. Alistair could feel the warmth† of the tainted blood sloshing around him.

From his side he could see Everd cleaving a genlock in two. Alistair had nearly forgotten that dwarves possessed such strength. It was as though the Maker had hewn them from the rock that surrounded them, each muscle and ligature designed for maximum efficiency.

But Alistair did not too think too hard about it. He fought the horde with all his might, and the dwarves fought with him. He had only progressed a few more feet inside the cavern and was already feeling fatigue. Even the fittest could not fight forever. Here and there a great war cry would sound from one of his comrades, catching the Warden’s ear, reminding Alistair that they were there.

Bodies piled upon bodies, and darkspawn blood blemished the waters below. What seemed like hours must have only been minutes due to adrenaline. Genlocks seemed to surround him now–-just how many were there?-–when he felt an arrow whiz past his head.

The arrow clattered uselessly into the wall behind him, causing Alistair to duck down behind his shield. He could not see the marksman in the dark, surrounded by tangles of limbs and hideous, corrupted faces.

Indeed, Alistair soon realized he could not see much of anything and had by degrees adjusted to the dim, lyrium-lit environment. The lanterns had faded, and he realized he had not heard the dwarves yell in some time.

 _Plink_! went an arrow, this time straight into the face of his shield.

The Warden fought on the genlocks’ level then, half-crouched, which was a great deal more difficult than he had realized–-but once he managed an opening, he risked a glance towards the cavern entrance.

There were several darkspawn between him and the tunnel from which they’d come, and the dwarves were withdrawing into it, just as they had originally planned.

And why not? They were overwhelmed; it was simply the smart course of action.

Alistair’s heart sank, and he began to panic. He had blocked out the song of the Old Gods in his head until then, now recognizant of it.

This was it.

He was going to die.

 _Don’t think, just do_.

A burst of anger drove him foreward, his energy renewed for a short interval, straight into a Shriek. Its mantis-like protrusions tore at him, cutting at his armor. He felt his pauldron shift and his gauntlet hang from his forearm; the darkspawn must have worn away at the leather straps.

_Pffftnk! –Pfft!_

Alistair heard multiple arrows now, but did not feel them on either his shield, but heard them. He thrust his shield forward with brute strength, rallying as best he could, forcing the Shriek backwards. But it was surprisingly strong.

_Pffzz–_

The weight against his shield suddenly lessened, and as the man glanced up he could see an arrow through the darkspawn’s head. He wondered if this had been an accident, as darkspawn did not show much sympathy for their own kind–

 _Zzzflnk_! The genlock suddenly fell over, struck in the back with a feathered arrow.

Someone was helping him! They had to be! But who? Had the dwarves come back, having regrouped?

And then he saw it.

A figure had thrust itself against a line of genlocks, brandishing two blades. They were etched with blue runes, imbued with magic, and seemed to shine much like the ambient lyrium. They radiated a cold so intense that the air around them _smoked_. Beyond the glint of armor he could not make out much, and resolved to fight harder so that he might see who it was.

Perhaps it was the momentary distraction, but Alistair suddenly felt a massive force against the side of his head. The world spun, and he fell sideways. Instinctively he held up his shield, even though he could not see; he felt a massive force against it then, and it bore down on his stomach. He could scarcely breathe from the weight.

Everything was both silent, and yet very loud. White noise seemed to crowd out everything else. The hisses, the cries of darkspawn–

_Alistair!_

His name. Who was calling to him? Or was he simply imagining it?

 _Are you ready to go, Alistair_?

When he opened his eyes, he was standing at the front gate of the Chantry, in late summer. There before him was a man in silver and white armor. He was a swarthy-complected man, unusual for Ferelden, but stood as nobly as any lord or king. He bore the insignia of a griffon upon his chest.

Ah, that’s right.

_Ser Duncan, I’ve been meaning to thank you for your involvement. Joining the Wardens is a huge honor…_

Ser Duncan, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, smiled at him. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Except one word.

 _Alistair_.

_Alistair?_

Suddenly, Ser Duncan was over him, his face framed by a griffon’s helmet, mouth moving incomprehensibly. Alistair stared puzzled up at him, then suddenly the sun shone right in his eyes. He winced terribly, then held his hand up.

The world faded.

 _At least he’s not dead_ , said a voice off to the side. Alistair thought he recognized it, but could not place it just then. It sounded foreign, though.

“Alistair.” A female voice was speaking, smooth as butter. It took the Warden a moment to realize who it was who was speaking to him.

Millagre Stonecipher was kneeling beside him, watching him. The “sun” had been a lantern, and there were several of these now. After a moment she clasped the hand Alistair had extended towards her, and held it down at his side.

He could only stare, wondering if this was some hallucination. Still, Millagre was not entirely as he remembered her. This one had aged, and bore several new scars. Darkspawn blood had flecked her armor, her griffon-wing helmet. Yet it was unmistakably her.

Alistair sat up suddenly, surprising the rest of the group. Both the dwarves and Wardens had set up camp within the cavern, now devoid of darkspawn (for the moment). The darkspawn corpses had been painstakingly tossed over the edge of the rise into a mushroom grove below, where their deaths might prove most fruitful.

“Darkspawn,” he managed, still bewildered. “Where did they all go?”

“We killed them,” said Millagre. “Before they managed to kill you.”

“All dead? But…  _How_?”

It was very surreal, such that Alistair wondered whether or not he was truly alive. How could he be? He had been swarmed by darkspawn. There was no way he should have survived the event, how–

And then Alistair heard it: the song of the Old Gods. It drifted through his mind sweetly and serenely, like a bow sliding with the barest touch over violin strings.

The Calling persisted.

The dwarf woman merely shrugged at his confusion. “Perseverance?”

“And quite a bit of help from yours truly!”

It was the voice of Zevran Arainai. He stood over Millagre, silhouetted by the lantern light. When Alistair peered up at him, the Antivan grinned broadly. “Finally awake are we, Prince Charming? I would have held out for a kiss, myself.”

“Hi…Zevran.”  Alistair groaned as he shifted, then rubbed the side of his head. It was tender, and very bruised. He was not sure he was in the mood to deal with the elf now, not when his head was pounding.

“Take it easy, Al. You took a nasty blow.”

 _Al_.  _She’s the only person to call me that_ , he thought somberly.

The Warden-Commander laid a hand on his back and helped to ease him down. The bare floor was not very comfortable, but someone had bundled up a linen cloth to use as a pillow. The world spun just a little less. Alistair was grateful.

“Tell him to keep his eyes open,” advised Nathaniel. “Do not let him sleep.”

The Warden-Constable had been attempting to create a fire in the cavern, but the available organic matter was either too slow to burn or too fast. He had not given up, however.

“You heard him,” said Millagre. “Eyes open.”

Alistair was not keen on the idea of eternal sleep, so he refrained from even resting his eyes. Yet drowsiness set in soon after. He and the dwarves had been fighting all day, and he was very tired. The temptation to sleep unnerved him. But greater than the need for the sleep was the desire to understand.

“Millagre,” he said after a time. “Why are you even here?”

“Official Grey Warden business.”

Mainar scoffed in the background as he tore off a piece of jerky with his teeth. “Fine, play coy. It’s none of our business why the Warden-Commander would send a man to die, then decide that he shouldn’t.”

Alistair had lied, claiming to be an active Grey Warden–had claimed that the dwarven Paragon-cum-Warden-Commander had issued the command. To the Dwarves it had appeared as though Millagre were a fickle person and made terrible decisions. Still, it was a small transgression.

“I don’t know how you found me, or if this was an accident. But it’s my time, Millagre.”

He spoke softly, trying to avoid spilling all their secrets. Why he still cared was a mystery. Perhaps in some small way he still considered himself a Warden, even when he was not. Alistair wondered why Millagre had not outed him yet.

“The song is a lie.”

“What do you mean, the song is a lie?”

Her voice was barely more than a whisper now.  _Perhaps I’ve misheard_ , he thought.

“All the Wardens in Ferelden are hearing it, Al. Not just you– _everyone_.”

“Are you having me on?”

“No.” She knelt closer to his ear. “All the Wardens in Ferelden, and possibly our friends in Orlais and the Free Marches–we don’t know yet. So either all the Wardens are dying, or there is something else entirely.”

Millagre could feel it in the pit of her stomach, the realization that the other option was also  possible– _simultaneous corruption_. But she would not believe it. Not yet.

“That’s… So you’re saying, I might not be dying just now.”

“Precisely.”

She observed him in the lantern light. It was too dim to ascertain all his features, but ten years had weighed heavily on the man. His eyes wrinkled more, pockets had formed beneath his eyes. Perhaps Zevran exhibited much the same signs, but her closeness to him had allowed her to miss the more subtle changes.

 _It’s been ten years now_ , she thought distantly.  _Almost ten years_.

“So either I’m not dying, or we’re all dying at the same time.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll stake my life on your guess, then.” Alistair sighed, then wrinkled his eyebrows. “The alternative is not exactly cheery, is it? All the Grey Wardens dying at once.”

Millagre shook her head. “Still working for the Arl?”

“You bet.” The man coughed, then cleared his throat. The cavern was rank with the stench of darkspawn blood, and it would only grow worse. “Or, well, I was.”

“Quit, did you?”

“In a manner of speaking. Kind of a peculiar letter to write. ‘Hi, Uncle Teagan. A voice in my head is telling me I’m going to morph into a darkspawn soon, so I must leave now. Off to kill myself. Goodbye, signed Alistair.’”

“You have a gift with words.”

“Don’t I ever?” He chuckled slightly, then grimaced; a bruise had made itself known.

“Well,” began the woman carefully–she glanced between Zevran and Nathaniel, both of whom were watching her–Nathaniel nodded subtly–and Millagre returned her attention to the injured man. “We do have an opening.”

As they say, once a Warden…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> †From my memory of 'The Calling', they referenced darkspawn being cold to the touch. Therefore the blood might actually be cold or simply lukewarm. I will have to see if I can find this fact referenced. Either way, I cannot imagine darkspawn blood being pleasant, whatever temperature it may be.


	7. Once a Warden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair has been extended an invitation to rejoin the Wardens at Vigil's Keep, but there are issues that neither he nor the Commander has addressed.

They had skipped the Diamond Quarter completely. It had been the Warden-Commander’s preference, and no-one had objected.

Still, Alistair could not help but wonder if the Palace’s beds might have been a mite more comfortable than these. The tavern beds were generous for dwarves, but Alistair found that his feet dangled off the edge if he attempted to lie straight. Across the room dozed the prone, half-contorted form of Nathaniel Howe.

Whom Alistair had been surprised to learn was truly related to the late Rendon Howe. Nathaniel had been unwilling to discuss the topic further, and in regards to his recruitment related to Alistair only the fact that he had been conscripted by Millagre.

His sleep had been intermittent and fitful. This had little to do with being in a strange place, rooming with a stranger–he was used to sleeping on all manner of surfaces, in barracks with other soldiers, this was not new. No, it had to do with the song which teased at the edges of the mind and the question of his future role.

Millagre had extended him the offer of rejoining the Grey Wardens. As much as he regretted his decision to leave ten years ago, his life circumstances had changed. And even though the Grey Wardens were still respected in Ferelden, the Order was not as it had been under Duncan. Not as he remembered it.

Alistair shifted, hoping to find a more comfortable position, and sighed.

After several frustrating minutes of staring at the stone wall with a nary a wink, the man elected to get up and take a stroll.

What time was it, anyway? How did the dwarves tell time without a timepiece? How were they the first to invent clocks, for that matter? Though after accompanying Mainar and the others, Alistair wondered if there really was such a thing as  _Stone Sense_  after all.

He slipped on his tunic and boots, careful not to awaken Nathaniel, then tip-toed out from the room, proceeding to the foyer.

The tavern was dimly lit, and Alistair saw the proprietor wiping down the bar as he passed. The dwarf paused in his duty and smiled lightly.

“Morning to you, Warden Ser.”

Alistair opened his mouth to correct the man but decided against it. “Morning,” he echoed.

“Your Commander’s in the back.”

Oh? This piqued his curiosity. He smiled and nodded his thanks, then made his way up to the split-level floor. As he approached the seating area, he heard soft voices speaking carefully.

“…more of a commitment than you realize.”

“I’m not the same man I was then.”

“That goes without saying. Time changes all that it touches, and there is very little it does  _not_.”

Alistair paused, able to discern the timbre of Millagre’s voice above another, still familiar one. It was one he heard recently yet could not place–not Zevran’s, not Nathaniel’s. He began to feel uncomfortable as he listened, wondering at which point the eavesdropping would become inexcusable, but was intrigued by the conversation. He lingered a while yet, just behind a stone pillar.

“What was done to you–what I did to you–no apology can make up for that. I cannot erase what happened, but…ah, sod it–if I could return to that time, I would have stood up to him.”

“ _Veata_. The past is the past, and you are wrong to think that I have made my decision based solely on personal feeling.”

The former Warden pressed his lips together, curious now. It was not strange to think that Millagre had other acquaintances, but could this have been a former lover? It was not Alistair’s business of course, but as Millagre’s ex, he felt ambivalent on the matter. He had listened long enough–and continued up the stairs.

Alistair saw Millagre, dressed in a simple blue-patterned tunic and leggings. He had not, however, expected to see Pygrin there. He briefly recalled the conversation they had had the previous day, how the Paragon had been his reason for joining the army.

 _So that’s what he meant_ , thought the man.

“Millagre. You’re up early.”

The Warden-Commander looked surprised to see him there. And she was, though Alistair could not know that part of her glance involved the appraisal of his bed-hair, which the proprietor had neglected to mention.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Wasn’t feeling well, couldn’t sleep. Sit down with us?”

“Sure.”

Alistair claimed a chair, though the furniture was lower to the ground. He found that his knees barely fit beneath the table. “Didn’t expect to see you again either,” he said to Pygrin then. “You two know each other?”

“You were listening?”

Millagre met Alistair’s gaze across the table, and in the firelight he could see her most salient features. He might even describe her as haggard in that moment, what with the circles beneath her eyes and the wrinkles in her brow. She was drinking something warm and spicy; he could detect the scent of cinnamon in the air. Alistair found himself watching her more than Pygrin, who he realized had grown uncomfortable.

“Not too much, no,” he replied. “Just, the fact that you’re both here at this hour is odd enough. But the way you were talking…”

“We did know each other, yes,” answered the dwarf, rubbing his eyebrow. Alistair noticed he avoided looking at either of them now. “A long time ago. It’s…complicated.”

Millagre raised an eyebrow at her fellow dwarf. “Not really that complicated. But the issue at hand is, Pygrin here wants to be a Warden.”

Alistair was dumbfounded. “You  _do_?”

“I do,” declared Pygrin, folding his arms. “You sound surprised, Ser Alistair. Based on all that I saw yesterday, I understand your skepticism. Though what I do not understand yet why you were in the Deep Roads to begin with.”

“All that we do, we do for a reason. If you become a Warden, then we will be glad to enlighten you,” said Millagre steadily. “But we are not in the position to accept new recruits right now.”

 _Because of the Song?_  wondered Alistair.  _The Fereldan Order can’t possibly command more than a few dozen Wardens these days… Duncan was always looking out for more._

Pygrin Hightower was chagrined, though not overtly angry. He seemed unsure how to react in front of them both. “And if I asked your second?”

“Oh, Warden-Constable Howe is aware of our current policy towards recruitment, and I will be sure to remind him of this. Perhaps we will see in the future, when the situation changes?”

That was the other dwarf’s cue to leave, and he accepted it begrudgingly. With a large hand he pushed himself from the table, then sidled towards the exit.

“Oh, and Pygrin?” Millagre called out after him. He paused, then turned his head slightly. “I harbor no resentment towards you. But know this; for many, the Grey Wardens are not a high honor, but a punishment. Do not rush into a decision you may regret.”

He was gone shortly thereafter, and Alistair watched her amber eyes linger where he stood. It could have been longing, or regret, or any number of emotions; though Alistair guessed quite correctly she was instead lost in thought.

“Millagre?”

A moment passed, and then she glanced his way. “Sorry.”

“Feeling any better?”

“About the same. It will pass.” She sipped her tea, or what Alistair assumed was its nearest equivalent in Orzammar.

“I should probably thank you,” he said, after a time.

“What for?”

“You saved my life. Though perhaps that part conveniently slipped your mind?” A smirk edged its way into face. “You were not obligated to do that, but you ventured into the Deep Roads anyway. Because of  _me_.”

“Alistair…” She said his name through a breath, an exhalation, then straightened. “Wardens look after their own.”

“That’s true, but as you and I  _both_  know, I *left* the Wardens.”

The Commander leaned forward deliberately, her eyes permanently trained on him, much like a bird of prey or possibly a wolf. He felt an intensity radiating from that look, as though she put the word  _grave_  in  _gravitas_.

“You never leave the Wardens. You never stop being a Warden just because you run away, or hide–” And even though Alistair felt much like protesting at her word choice, she cut him off. “You may have followed my orders once, but you were my senior. By all rights, you should be where I am. Maferath’s  _tits_ , I should be dead.”

“Maferath’s–what?”

“Tits? As in breasts?”

“No, I know what tits are, just–what’s being dead got to do with it?”

Millagre shook her head slowly, then took another sip of her warm beverage. Whatever she meant by that statement, she certainly wasn’t going to expand on it. “Want to know something?”

“Ah, I guess so?”

“Some days it feels that the world just took a wrong turn somewhere, somewhere in the course of history, and has gotten itself mixed up. Some things which are, just shouldn’t be.”

Alistair furrowed his eyebrows, then sucked in at his cheek. “Are you drinking at six in the morning? What is that, spiced rum?”

“It’s  **tea** , Alistair. Tea. For nausea. Try.”

Millagre pressed the ceramic mug forward. Alistair felt awkward, then tried a sip. “Oh,” he said suddenly, as the spices hit him. “That’s…that’s not from Orzammar, is it.”

“Loghain brought back a case from Orlais,” she added. “I bring a few sachets with me.”

The man darkened a little, and he pushed the mug back in her direction. Alistair had just remembered part of what caused their initial schism–namely, sparing the man who murdered Duncan and the rest of the Grey Wardens ten years prior.

“The taint can’t ever be removed from my blood, that much is true,” he said quietly. “And if that’s your definition of a Grey Warden, then I suppose I am one. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to rejoin the Order.”

“In the past, the Order would never have given you the choice.”

“Are you going to hold a dagger to my throat, Millagre?” he asked, bitterness in his voice. “Kill me for being a deserter? I suppose you have that right. Would be a shame though, after I went through all the trouble to thank you just now.”

She seemed vaguely pained at the sentiment, and Alistair couldn’t tell if it was her stomach or if he had somehow injured her feelings. He almost felt bad–until he didn’t.

“The offer stands,” she said simply. “You are welcome to accompany us through the Frostbacks until Crestwood or thereabouts, at which point you may leave. But the Calling will still affect you, as it affects me, as it affects Nathaniel. If a solution is found, we will certainly write to you.”

Alistair stared at the table, unwilling to meet her gaze like a stubborn child. “I will take you up on that,” he said. “But that is where we part ways.”

“So be it,” she answered him. Perhaps it was natural dwarven stoicism, or perhaps it was her experiences as Warden-Commander which closed her off then. The dwarf stood from her chair, cradling the mug in her hands. “Well, I am off to check on my husband.”

The blond man paused. “Is Zevran all right?”

“Food poisoning.” Millagre scratched her cheek. “So he claims.”

“May be just the Tavern food, if it’s both of you.”

The Warden-Commander did not answer immediately. It was risky for a non-Warden to travel the blighted Deep Roads, that much they both knew.

“Perhaps,” said Millagre. She turned to walk back towards her room, tea in hand, but stopped. “Try to rest some more, Al. You’ll wear yourself out.”

“I’ll try.” Though he pretended not to watch her, he watched her retreat out of the corner of his eye.

 _That went well,_  he thought to himself, sighing mentally.

 


	8. Orlesian Tea

A pale-faced Zevran emerged from his hideaway sometime in the afternoon. Millagre had brushed and tied his hair into a single blond plait. At the time, it had been less for aesthetics and more for his comfort as he braced himself against the nearest chamberpot and emptied into it the contents of his stomach. Now the elf seemed remarkably better, if tired–and, as Alistair saw, distinctly lacking in the black stain of the Darkspawn corruption.

Zevran stood before their table at the tavern and took stock of the three Wardens. He suspected they had not been there all day, had heard from Nathaniel briefly that morning how the Commander had had to “shake some hands,” but the three of them seemed remarkably deflated, with the sort of grim aura that veteran soldiers often had.

“All right, my friends. Who has died?”

He rested a hand on the back of Nathaniel’s chair, steadying himself. Zevran disguised this as being overtly friendly, and successfully gained the Warden-Constable’s attention. He’d had a light ale (and to the dwarves, “light” was very much the equivalent to a standard ale topside), the scent of it almost cloying to Zevran.

“You haven’t heard?” Nathaniel’s lips paused on the rim of the glass, then he set down the beverage. “I guess you wouldn’t’ve.”

“Funny you should ask that though,” said Alistair, who then failed to elaborate. Like Millagre, he had elected to have a cup of tea instead. At least several dwarves had side-eyed his choice. He had wanted to say,  _But it’s Orlesian_! In other parts of Ferelden, the excuse occasionally worked. (E.g., if it’s Orlesian, it must be of fine quality!) But in Orzammar, claiming a preference for dried plant bits stirred into hot water was an egregious offense. Especially when the unspoken comparison was to local brews.

Millagre was not magically exempt from such judgment, Paragon though she was, but clearly she had other concerns. Alistair could see the visible concern in her eyes when she looked at Zevran. He recognized the look for what it was, as he had been its recipient once before–

 _Adoration_.

“Sit down, Zev.”

She motioned for him to sit down in the other empty seat, just beside Nathaniel. Zevran did not argue. He hauled himself a short distance then dropped into the seat’s stone frame, cool against his back, and remarkably firm. He distantly thought that dwarves must almost never have problems with good posture, then sighed.

“All I see are three very–ah, how do you call it in common?” Zevran brandished his hand as he thought, as though summoning the errant words. “Ay, it escapes me. Whole and hale…?”

“Hale and hearty?” offered Nathaniel.

“Yes–three very hale and hearty Wardens, who braved the Deep Roads to find one another. A long-awaited reunion…” His gaze danced between the two Wardens across from him. “It is a touching story, a tear-jerker if ever I heard one.”

Alistair cleared his throat politely, and threaded his fingers together. “Ah, yes. About that. As I let your Commander and Warden Howe know earlier, I acknowledge that I am, yes, indebted to the lot of you, and that your efforts will not go unappreciated, as it were. Since you were a part of that group, you deserve some of that thanks.”

The elf grinned broadly but nodded his head. “You are quite welcome, my friend.”

Alistair pressed his lips together. “ _But_ –”

“But?” Zevran rested his cheek against the palm of his hand, watching the long-lost Warden with interest. What that interest entailed, Alistair could only guess.

The majority of his guesses were wrong.

“But something happened while you were sleeping, Zevran. Something… _very bad_.”

“What kind of  _very bad_  do you mean? ‘I lost my wallet and lunch voucher’ sort of bad, or–”

“I was getting there!” He rotated the tea mug between his fingers idly (tea cups were sort of a  _human_ thing, though the Palace might have been more accommodating of outside cultures). “We received news from Haven. About the Conclave.”

Most everyone had an opinion about the Mage-Templar Conflict; it did not matter whether a person was Fereldan, Orlesian, Antivan, Orzammaran, or Qunandaran. Zevran tightened his fingers almost imperceptibly.

“So they failed, then.”

“Yes,” agreed Alistair. His voice was soft and solemn at first, but it grew increasingly agitated. “The Conclave failed. Not because they couldn’t agree, but because some  _insane_  radical mage decided to blow the place sky-high.”

“We don’t know if it was a mage,” added Millagre. “But it probably was a crazy person.”

“Oh, come on. The mages have what they want right now–no Circle, no authority. But whoever it was was clearly worried about potential compromise. What if the mages agreed to reestablish the Circles? The Templars certainly had no motive here.”

“Even so. No-one knows what happened–or why it happened. All we have is the initial report.”

“All right, so there’s been no official investigation, no  _official_  determined cause. But 'Giant Hole in the Sky’, that doesn’t scream  _mage_  to you? Even if the Divine had a direct link to the Maker, she still couldn’t channel power like that.”

“Giant Hole in the Sky?” Zevran’s interest was piqued.

“They are calling it ’ _The Breach_ ,’” came Nathaniel’s cool tone. He was the water to Alistair and Millagre’s smoldering fire. “It sounded ludicrous to me, but more than one account has been told of this Breach. A hole in the sky above Haven. Demons raining down.”

The elf sat up with an incredulous expression, as though Nathaniel had just described Alistair dancing the mambo. Though, in truth, that was more believable than what Zevran had been asked to believe.

“And this isn’t an elaborate prank?”

Alistair sighed. “I wish it were. Then we could all have a good laugh about gullible Zevran, ha ha, and go about our business.”

“And Alistair has confirmed the part about the demons.” Millagre spoke in a low, conspiring tone, out of the assumption that the other dwarves in the room may not have known the full extent of the danger.

“Oh? Do tell, my friend.”

“Still hoping it was a one-time thing, you know, a fluke–” The former Warden rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down at the table. “I was in the Hall of Heroes earlier when I heard shouting, and a courier comes running not long after, and he calls out to the guards as he passes that there’re  _demons_  up topside. So I go to investigate–and the town square–circle? It’s not even a town either, really, but–”

“We know what you mean,” Millagre prodded him.

“There are  _rage demons_ , multiple ones, just causing havoc everywhere. I’ve never seen anything like it. Stalls on fire, so many dead, and the soldiers are trying to hold the line and they don’t even want to let  _anyone_ through, because demons. I doubt they’d ever seen one before. Down here it’s only Darkspawn–and Darkspawn are  _very bad_  too, make no mistake.”

“They are rare,” agreed the Commander. “First demons I ever came across were at Kinloch Hold.”

“Yes, so–first thing’s first, we had to evacuate everyone into the Hall–”

Alistair vividly recalled yelling at the guardsmen to allow all the civilians entrance into Orzammar, branded or no. Alistair was surprised that they complied when it was him issuing the orders. ’ _Yes, Warden Ser_ ,’ they’d said. And he hadn’t even been wearing the griffon tabard. Yet they had seen him with Millagre, with Nathaniel, and made the assumption. He had forgotten what it was like to command that kind of authority.

As Captain of the Redcliffe Guard, he had not garnered half the respect as he had while a Grey Warden.

“And then we…well, we fought them.”

“And naturally, succeeded,” concluded Zevran. “Otherwise we would be short one Warden, yes?”

“Er, yes.”

It was strange, he thought. Like Millagre, Zevran also referred to him as a Warden. Was it simply an old habit, and old habits died hard? Or did both of them still consider him a part of the Order? Alistair was not certain he wanted to correct the assassin (assuming Zevran was still in that line of work–Alistair was in the dark about the recent happenings in the lives of his old comrades). He was ambivalent even though he had told Millagre in no uncertain terms that he would return to Redcliffe.

Nathaniel Howe was a different matter. The man merely called him 'Alistair’ and kept him at arm’s length. As second-in-command of the Fereldan Wardens, Warden-Constable Howe no doubt knew all about him and had a pre-formed opinion. What that opinion was, he did not know.

 _I’d have to prove myself to him_ , thought Alistair vaguely. Then, he thought:  _But why would that matter? If I am to return to Teagan’s service, what he thinks is moot_.

“You seem pensive,” observed Nathaniel from across the table.

“Well, it’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” Alistair sipped the last vestiges of his lukewarm tea. “The Blight seemed like the end of the World, and now there’s demons coming in from a hole in the sky, not to mention that nonsensical war over in Orlais, and this… _this_  problem with the Calling.”

“If only you could hack the head off an archdemon and end it all.” Millagre chuckled darkly. “A simple solution, if not  _easy_.”

“Oh,  _Maker_  help us. Can you imagine if there were a sixth blight at the same time as the rest of all this?”

Alistair regretted the idea as soon as he spoke. A darkness fell over his comrades-in-arms. Even Zevran was quiet, and he usually had something irreverant to add. Alistair knew what they were thinking: the Sixth Blight was a possibility, it was always possible. Just because the Fifth Blight was over did not mean that they had bought Thedas another century. There was no “minimum time” between Blights, after all.

And Alistair could still hear it–the song of the Old Gods, always there, incessant and unrelenting. It only changed in its volume and intensity. In the Deep Roads, it had thrummed in his ears. Here, it was a trickle of a melody, strained and distant.

The Warden-Commander clasped her hands together.

“We should return to Vigil’s Keep as soon as we are able. This Breach is concerning, but any reports we receive now are old. Our task as Wardens is to find a way to end the Calling. Only then can we be of any use to Ferelden.”

“Agreed,” said Nathaniel laconically. “Perhaps Sigrun and the others will have found out more?”

 

 


	9. Beacon

It was bitter cold. Even the wool cloak failed to warm him completely. He’d undone the plait of his hair for extra coverage, cinched the hood as tight as was comfortable, and angled his face so that it did not catch errant snowflakes.

And to think, one month ago he had been in Antiva City, right up on the Bay with its warm breezes. Sure, he was never able to fully let down his guard there, because Zevran never knew who was watching. But he tried to remember the feel of the sun and the sand, finding shade from the relentless midday sun, and the repressive humidity of the marketplace caused by too many bodies and too many cooking fires.

Zevran felt slightly warmer, then sighed as he bit into a piece of  _tezpadam_  jerky, a local dwarven specialty. Millagre had made a batch recently to supplement their rations. Exactly where she’d procured the meat was not an appetizing thought, but then the dwarves had grown up eating all manner of things that even some Fereldans would find appalling. He had once found Oghren adding deep mushrooms to his moonshine as though it were completely normal. But then this was also  _Oghren_ , who was reported to have been the only Warden not to have fainted from drinking darkspawn blood.

Ah, yes. Oghren. They’d likely see him soon, back at Vigil’s Keep. Zevran tried not to consider how many more frigid nights it would be until then.

It couldn’t come soon enough.

Zevran moved slowly across the campground, taking care not to make a sound or to cast shadows over any of the three tents. Grey Wardens could be very jumpy people, after all.

There came a high-pitched sound, like a whistle. The elf tensed, halting to listen. It was distant and he could not discern where it had come from. After a few moments he scuffed the heel of his boot into the campfire ash, spreading it over the remaining live embers, then crept towards the edge of camp.

He sat crouched, still, hearing nothing but the gentle stir of wind.

Zevran’s fingers instinctively clutched the hilt of his left-side dagger as he scanned the environment. They had camped on an overlook along the main path which provided a vista over a small valley just below them, dotted with evergreen trees. That’s when he saw it.

It seemed to be an orb of green light, hovering just among the tree tops. And it was not a perfect orb; the mass seemed unstable, flickering and shifting. Ethereal.

Zevran was not quite sure what to make of this, and he had been to Orzammar enough times to know this was not a natural phenomenon.  _The work of a mage_? he wondered. He could not see anyone, if indeed the spectacle was man-made, and the limited moonlight could only penetrate the trees so far.  _Bandits would have tried to kill us already_.  _And this does not feel like the Crows._

Had he been on his own, Zevran would not have lingered a moment further and likely chosen to escape. Yes, it meant he would never be able to uncover the mysteries of its origins, so sad.

 _But_  he was traveling among friends, all of whom were quite tired, and if the situation was going to escalate then they needed to be prepared.

So he approached the third tent and whispered lovingly through the canvas. “Alistair…” The man did not respond immediately. “Wake up, Alistair. Otherwise I shall have to infiltrate that tent of yours, and tickle you into wakefulness.”

There was a long, low groan from within the tent. “I hear you, Zevran.” Then a moment later: “Is it that time already?”

“Alas, it is early yet. But there is something out here you should see.”

He thought he could discern a ’ _This better be good_ ’under the man’s breath, but Zevran could not tell for certain. This did not bother him. If it turned out to be nothing, then it resulted in only an interruption to someone’s sleep. Alistair could nap later, no?

Alistair joined him moments later, teeth chattering, hands tucked under his armpits. He carried his sword, but had not bothered with his armor. He looked around in the dark until Zevran lightly touched his shoulder. He startled at this, and very nearly drew his sword to strike at the assassin–

“Relax, my friend!” Zevran whispered with some urgency. “Come with me, and stay quiet.”

Confused but trusting, Alistair allowed himself to be led to the edge of camp. His legs were stiff after a night of sleep and cold, so he gingerly crouched down as Zevran did so. The elf gestured to the valley below.

“It’s all dark. So what’s this that I came out here to–?”

He paused, then stared at the eldritch distortion among the canopy, just out of reach from their post. Alistair stared at it, rubbed his eyes, blinked, stared at it some more, then exhaled.

“Maker, but what is it?”

“You have no idea?”

“Well, it’s certainly not normal, is it? Kind of creepy, actually. What makes you think I’d know?”

“Ah, well, maybe Templar training? It was a small hope. No matter.”

The elf glanced over at Alistair, his face cast mostly in shadows. If the Antivan accent had not been so distinct, he would not be able to tell it was Zevran at all, just a shadowy figure. He was quite glad that they were both friends, or at least on decent enough terms. Alistair would have hated to have met such an enemy in the dark.

“Should we wake the others?”

“Let them sleep–for now,” Zevran said. “I will travel down to investigate its source. Once I am able to determine that, and whether it is the machination of someone with murderous intent, I shall return.”

“Er, but you don’t really think someone’s trying to kill us, do you?”

“Possibly. Possibly not. It is good to keep an open mind just in case. Do you disagree?”

“It’s just,” Alistair said, blinking–wiping away the crust from his eye. “With a big green shiny glowy  _beacon_?” Zevran merely shrugged. “Guess there have been worse assassination attempts.”

“Have I told you I missed your humor, Alistair? Because I truly have.”

“All right, all right. That was poor. But really, by yourself?”

“Simple reconnaissance, nothing more. You, my friend, stay here.” There were no other sounds coming from the tents, just two sleeping Wardens. Two vulnerable Wardens. And he was going to let Alistair watch over them. The man had done so, successfully, in the past–but that was years ago. “Watch over them.”

“I will watch the camp, don’t worry about that.” Alistair tightened his lower lip. “But if you’re not back in a reasonable amount of time, I’m coming after you.”

“Oh? You are worried about me, Alistair? I’m touched that you feel that way.”

“Yes, well.” The Warden cleared his throat. “You can handle yourself, but there are other people counting on you now. So I’d rather not have to explain any unpleasantness to them.”

A short laugh, almost haughty, escaped Zevran. “I shall keep that in mind.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me! I realize they've been chatting quite a bit. (sweats) The next chapter will have a much greater preponderance of action--and we'll soon see the group moving out of the Frostbacks!


	10. Always a Warden

There was no clear path into the valley, so Zevran had to make one.

By moonlight he carefully slid down a slope of rock, but the descent was steeper than he anticipated. Just as it seemed he would land face-first into the cold, hard earth, Zevran tucked his chin and rolled. When he came to a stop, he opened his eyes to the black of the forest canopy, thankful that his momentum had not been enough to throw him into a tree, then stood up.

The snow was only a thin layer here, cold as it was. Zevran figured it for leftover snowmelt from previous days. It occasionally squeaked below his boots. He had to be mindful of that.

He crept as soundlessly as possible through the dark of the forest, leaving moonlight behind and embracing shadow. Yet even the shadow did not last, not entirely, replaced steadily by the green glow of the rift.

Zevran controlled his breaths with his movement, carefully shifting his weight the closer he crept. And then he pressed his back against an evergreen, waiting. He could see the rays of eldritch light flooding all around him now, and he could feel the strange charge in the air. It just felt  _wrong_ , though he knew not why. But he knew where the beacon lay–behind him, above him.

He was about to poke his head out and take a closer look when it happened.

Several tendrils of green lightning shot towards the ground, striking the earth, dredging up rocks and soil–one had struck right in front of him! Zevran shielded his eyes, thinking he might go blind. His instincts were now urging him to  _run_ , and quite strongly, too. But he waited, and pressed himself up against the tree, sidling slightly off to the side.  

This was probably for the best, for what the assassin saw then caused him to freeze.

Something was physically clawing its way out from the light, which Zevran realized suddenly was probably the  _Fade_ , especially when the monstrosity ripped open the air and peeled itself out. It was no hallucination; the ground vibrated with each step of its massive, scaled legs. Zevran held his breath as he watched the demon manifest itself. It seemed twice the size of a Qunari, and double the horns, with a jaw of teeth meant for rending flesh. Its spiked carapace  _looked_ impenetrable, and while Zevran trusted that his daggers would strike true, he could not be certain of their effectiveness.

The Demon of Pride had not yet seen him, or sensed him, and for that Zevran was quite glad. With any luck he would be able to creep away, back to camp, and rouse the others before these demons were any the wiser.

Mindful of his environment, he slowly crept away, minimizing the sound of his footfalls. He pushed all thoughts away but was distantly aware of his quickening heart. Adrenaline had begun to course through him, heightening his senses and slowing time.  

Zevran slunk towards the gloom. While moving, he remained low enough to the ground that his fingers could brush its surface. When certain that he was hidden, he would still his body and listen for movement.

He could still feel the vibrations beneath his feet, more distant than before.  

 _Excellent_ , Zevran thought.  _Perhaps the beast will stay where it is?_

Now he only had to find the pathway back to camp. The canopy was dappled by the moon where he stood, but it was difficult to tell where–-or even _if_ –-it ended. Yet Zevran kept moving, picking the direction he felt was best.

Had the forest been this long originally?

Another few minutes elapsed as he traipsed through the underbrush before finding the edge of the evergreens, a sight which gladdened him.

And then he heard it.

_Zevran!_

The elf clenched his teeth. Evidently he had taken too long–so he abandoned his stealthy practice, emerging from beyond the treeline and rushing in the direction of the voice. Zevran thought he saw the figure several yards away, with something very much like a shield glinting beneath the open sky.

 _Zevran-_ – _if you’re there_ –-

The assassin chastised Alistair silently in his head, hoping to stem some of the annoyance he was feeling then. How many times the fool of a Warden had endangered them, if unwillingly, if  _indirectly_ , he could not recall.

_Maker help you, friend, if you open that mouth one more time!_

The elf gesticulated wildly as he ran, fast approaching the Warden, not caring much for the squelching of wet snow beneath him. All things considered, it was likely quieter than the man yelling for him.

Alistair was quite surprised to see the cloaked man appear off to his right, and even more so to see that Zevran was running and waving to gain his attention. Generally these were worrisome signs, and he wasted no time drawing his sword.

“Is that you, Zevran?”

“Yes.”

The answer was curt, and came out as a low, quiet hiss. Alistair was bemused by the tone, wondering if he had been hurt, somehow.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I am  _perfectly_  fine.”

“Thank the Maker. I was worried something had happened. You left and then not ten minutes later that  _thingy_  explodes and shoots out these little bits of light, and–-”

Zevran glanced behind them, obviously distracted. His eyes darted nervously about, as though expecting to see the demon sneaking up behind them.

It was not.

“We should keep moving.” Zevran gripped Alistair by the arm and urged him away, but the Warden resisted.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because–-”

The snow  _hissed_. It was loud and audible, and both rogue and warrior looked to a patch of earth before them which had begun to glow, melting all around it. When the snow melted, the water evaporated and the slumbering grasses caught alight, shriveling into ash.

“Ahhh, I see! You were  _running_  from something! Makes perfect sense now.”

Alistair had backed away, readying his sword and shield, while Zevran was already attempting to scramble up a rock face.

Then a demonic presence shot up from the ground, shaping itself from an amorphous red mass into something vaguely humanoid, with long, anatomically incorrect forearms, long claws for fingers, and glowing eye sockets where actual eyes might be. In truth, the creature’s body was less a  _body_  than it was a translucent shell bursting with flames.

Its like had recently assaulted the surface dwarves at Orzammar. But Alistair was no novice when it came to rage demons. He had been given the exquisite pleasure of visiting the Circle right after a rogue mage named Uldred succumbed to temptation and became an abomination. There were quite a few more demons than he'd anticipated, more than he probably would have seen had he become a Templar. Enough to tide him over for a lifetime, really.

But this was no possessed mage, was it?

“Rage demon.” Alistair's observation was cool, controlled. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

He managed to duck fully behind his shield as he became ensconced in flames, a sight which gave Zevran pause. The rogue had managed to find a suitable foothold and was halfway up the ascent already.

“Stop fighting the demon, Alistair. We have to get back before the others come.”

“What was that? I can’t hear you over the  _roaring flames_.”

Alistair was not lying, either: the conflagration seemed to consume the air and drown out sound. Once the rage demon let up on the spell, the Warden charged forward, throwing his weight behind the attack and thrusting simultaneously with his blade.

The elf was clearly debating whether or not to leave Alistair to his fate, and whether this might not be an agreeable compromise to being overtaken by the Demon of Pride. Zevran held no malice towards the man. Perhaps there had once been some envy, or even jealousy, but that was in the past. No, he was simply being pragmatic.

But of course that thought was overpowered by his much stronger sense of conscience, which nagged at him until-–eventually-–Zevran Arainai relented in his escape and returned to join the fray. With two warriors, the battle would end more quickly.

He had brandished his daggers as Alistair renewed his attack, waiting for an obvious target. Such demons did not possess the same weak spots as your average fleshy Thedosian, but they did share one commonality: the ability to be felled by sharp blades.

That’s when the vibrations started.

Their battle had alerted the other creatures in the forest. Both men were not far from the treeline, and they would not be able to see their enemies until they were frighteningly near.

Perhaps in his haste to put an end to the battle, Zevran darted forward and drew his daggers across Rage Demon. It fell upon him then, attempting to subsume him into itself and its ring of flames. He could feel burning embers upon his exposed cheek as he attempted to avoid the demon’s advances and strikes.

The vibrations began increasing in frequency. The distinct snapping of branches could be heard above the din of crackling flames and clanking of metal.

And then Alistair drew his blade up the Rage Demon’s center, effectively splitting the creature in half. It seemed to melt onto the earth, dissipating into nothingness, leaving only a ring of scorched ground and an outerlying ring of wet slush.

“Zevran?”

“ _What?_ ” he snapped.

Alistair merely pointed. “You’re on fire.”

And so he was. The assassin swore liberally in his mother tongue as he divested himself of his cloak and stamped it into the remaining snow. With some luck, the garment would be dry enough to wear afterwards. If it wasn’t, Zevran was going to have a poor night.

Though it seemed the man was already having a poor night, at least in Alistair’s eyes. He had spent enough time in Kirkwall and Starkhaven to have met other Antivans, and as a result had picked up some choice phrases. He recognized a few of the man's utterances.

“Now what is that sound? I don’t–-oh,  _Maker_.”

When Alistair turned towards the cacophany of sound, he saw the colossus. It emerged from the treeline but then came to a stop as soon as it saw them. Alistair met its eyes, shrouded in the shadows of its face. Perhaps the creature sensed fear from them, for it let out a joyous, throaty laugh of demonic glee.

Zevran tensed. “The sound of our death, perhaps?”

* * *

 

Through a spyglass, Nathaniel Howe scanned the valley. At his side sat Ser Barksalot, ever loyal and watchful, though mostly watchful of his master, the Warden-Commander; she was attempting to break down camp with only a small lantern to see by.

A futile endeavor, most likely.

“Did you catch what he said?”

Nathaniel hummed but continued observing, a lone sentinel. “Something about checking on Zevran and the…’ _glowy thingy’_ , I believe.”

“Right. The  _glowy thingy_.”

The rift in the sky unnevered her to no end. She would not have hesitated to wake up the whole camp at its appearance. Who could sleep knowing something like  _that_  was hovering close by?

All she wanted was to return home safely. She simply wanted her boys safe–even Alistair. He could wander back to Redcliffe if he so chose and resume his duties under Teagan as long as that meant she didn’t lose him  _again_. And she could scarcely bring herself to think about Zevran and what his now-and-forever absence might mean.

Millagre finally found her helmet among her belongings, then picked it up. She held it in both hands, tracing a finger over its contours.  

 _You are a Grey Warden_ , she reminded herself.  _Now is not the time for sentimentalism._

“A demon,” said Nathaniel. The sudden billowing of flames at the base of the evergreens was hard to ignore, even against the enchanting light of the rift.

The Commander’s head snapped in his direction. “Where?”

“Down there. Looks like they’re engaging it.”

“Or it’s engaging them.”

“That could be, yes.”

The Warden-Constable hid the spyglass and turned to see his Commander, who was now properly outfitted. Neither of them was completely awake, but the decision was made without even voicing the order.

* * *

 

Alistair and Zevran had scrambled to ascend the escarpment leading back up to the trail. It was doable, but not an activity that Captain Alistair had practiced often in Redcliffe. Trees were hard enough by themselves, particularly in armor. But now they seemed preferable, even when there were kittens with claws at the end of them.   
  
_I’ve really been missing out on the whole Grey Warden experience_ , he thought wryly.

“What are you doing, taking a nap? Faster!”

“I’m going as fast as I can!” he protested.

“If you can talk, you are not  _trying_!”

Zevran’s urging was understandable, given that the Pride Demon was almost on them now. Alistair could not tell how close it was, just  _close_. With great effort, the warrior hauled himself up onto a ledge, then looked behind him.

He almost wished he hadn’t. Though Zevran was out of reach–meaning he could not be plucked from the rockface like the delicate flower he was–the Pride Demon was not exactly an ogre. No, the Pride Demon was not easily stopped by such measly inconveniences as incline.

The demon stopped short of them, then laughed. It was not deterred in the slightest. The creature raised its hand and summoned energy into its palm, then closed it tight. With a swing of its arm, it lashed out the energy like a whip.  

“Quickly, Zevran!”

The Warden held out his hand, and the elf reached to take it. But even as he grasped his comrade’s hand, Alistair could see the inevitable. The Pride Demon thrashed the whip of purple energy into Zevran’s back faster than Alistair could haul him up.

Zevran yelled upon feeling the impact, gritting his teeth, could feel the energy encircling his middle. And Maker, it  _burned_ , whatever it was. He was wrenched out from Alistair’s grasp, his other hand scraping against rock, and pulled with terrifying force in the opposite direction. Zevran thought how very surreal it all was, flying through the air.

And then he hit the ground. The wind was instantly knocked out of him, and his body rumpled like a ragdoll as he rolled and collapsed into the snow, now motionless.

Alistair was horrified. An impact like that could kill a man. It reminded him of the Blight, how a person could be laughing and talking with you one day, then cut down the next. Such as at Ostagar. Duncan, Cailen, all the Grey Wardens, everyone. He had fought to his last breath in the Tower of Ishal and even saw Millagre fall, though he had scarcely known her then.

But Zevran was tough, wasn’t he? He’d seen worse surely. He’d fought the archdemon, for Andraste’s sake. What could a Fade demon possibly have on an _archdemon_? Either way, Alistair had to be sure.

He just hoped he wouldn’t regret this.

The creature had turned its back on Alistair and was clomping back to Zevran’s prone form. The lone Warden climbed down back the way he had come, then started yelling at the Pride Demon, taunting it. Or attempting to, in an effort to draw it away.

“Come back and finish the job, why don’t you? I’m right here, you inconsiderate…demon, you!”

Zevran came to after a painful, and rather short, intake of breath. His eyes were hazy, but focusing in on the massive feet stalking towards him. He could see veritable  _talons_  in his peripheral vision. There was a ringing in his ears, but just above it, he could hear Alistair yelling. Possibly at him, he could not tell.

 _That foolish, foolish man_.

His wrist was shaking from the strain on his arm as the elf pushed himself up onto his knees. The whole of his body protested this effort. The Pride Demon loomed over him now, and he looked up, gritting his teeth. 

Alistair was running forward, pushing past the fatigue and exhaustion he felt, powered seemingly by sheer will alone. He saw the great form throw its arm to strike where Zevran lay, and he felt the earth quake beneath him. He tried not to hold his breath-–he needed to  _keep breathing,_ or else he’d be useless-–

The elf had thrown himself out of the way in the nick of time–-but not without repercussions. Something was definitely bruised, possibly broken. But he had seen worse. Zevran tried not to show his pain as he drew both daggers. Thankfully they had been properly sheathed, or he would have lost them.

_I guess we are going to either kill this thing or die trying? Very well, Alistair._

Though he was surprised when he saw Alistair slashing at its ankles. A proper, if bold, choice. When the Pride Demon turned about to grab the irksome human, he threw up a shield. Sensing that it would be difficult to properly skewer Alistair with its talons, it decided to  _beat_  forcefully on the shield instead. The man’s legs buckled instantly–-but it was enough time for Zevran to climb its back and begin tearing at its carapace.

The assassin was distantly aware that he would probably have to have his blades sharpened afterwards, but the demon was evidently angered enough to attempt to scrape the rogue off its back. Zevran flattened himself as best as possible to avoid this, and was largely successful.

Alistair was recovering, slowly, his chest heaving with effort. He tightened his sword grip and stepped forward–-

“Alistair!”

He froze, right as Nathaniel Howe loosed two flaming arrows into the demon’s left pectoral muscle. The archer immediately pulled another arrow from its quiver and circled round.

Ser Barksalot leapt and caught the demon’s hand in his maw. He snarled, keeping hold as long as possible.

 _Brave dog_ , thought Alistair. Then he caught a glimpse of Millagre at his side. She’d ripped the cork off a vial with her teeth, and was coating her sword with…something. She caught his eyes for a fraction of a second, smiled deviously, and charged forward.

The Pride Demon roared and pitched Zevran off its back finally. It had thrown itself forward to do this, and now clutched at the ground with its claws in an all-too-human way. For the second it was off-balance, Millagre jumped upon its arm and climbed up, more agile than dwarves were expected to be.

Nathaniel continued shooting from his position, near where Zevran now lay, groaning and willing himself to stand.

The Pride Demon shook its hand loose of the mabari, sending Ser Barksalot flailing into the snow, then closed its fists. Indigo energy gathered there, flickering and dancing and licking the air. The beast's eyes were trained forward, on Alistair, on Nathaniel, on Zevran–-the three of them aligned at precisely the wrong moment.

“Get out of the way!” cried Alistair.

The words were hardly spoken before the the creature from the Fade loosed two lengths of dark energy upon them, driving the whips down in an arc. They crackled as they hit the earth, boiling the snow around them. Zevran had thrown himself out of the way in time, cringing as he felt bones click and tendons pop. Then he heard Nathaniel choke in surprise behind him.

The assassin half-expected to see Warden Howe claimed by the attack, but he, too, had dodged. Still, the energy had been too close for comfort: it had torn through Nathaniel’s tunic, singeing his dominant arm.

Then the whips dissipated. This may or may not have occurred as a result of the Warden-Commander now hacking indiscriminately at the demon's neck. It flailed savagely at her efforts, but Millagre expertly crossed her legs around one of its horns and squeezed tight. She compacted herself as much as she could, save for a single arm. She continued thrusting the dagger downward, directly into the demon's skull. 

It shrieked and tore against her, shredding the parts of her skin which her armor did not cover, even as she deftly retreated in between its horns. All she could do was hang on until her strength gave out.

The others came at the Pride Demon again. Nathaniel continued with arrows; but once he had spent his supply, drew his own blade. Alistair whittled at it, suffering several harsh blows which were, for the most part, deflected by his shield. Ser Barksalot charged and nipped, often serving as a distraction for either his master, or Zevran, to slip in close and strike vital areas.

The Demon eventually fell, a fact which greatly surprised Alistair. Though perhaps the fact which surprised him most was that they had all survived.

Then a familiar whistle sounded through the air, and they had all agreed to a hasty retreat. Alistair had heard the very same high-pitched sound when the beacon (Nathaniel had encouraged him to call it something other than a ’ _thingy_ ’) exploded, and Zevran had corroborated his story.

By mid-morning they were well on their way down the mountain pathway once more, with mixed emotions. The Wardens had reluctantly joined with the dwarven caravan behind them. Zevran had found it too painful to ride horseback, and they had been able to find him a place on the wagon cart. He reclined there, wrapped in his wool cloak, right beside Ser Barksalot. His forepaw had been hurt, and was wrapped lovingly with a bandage ending in a tiny, pristine bow.

“You are getting too old for this, Ser Warden. Fighting demons and darkspawn. I hear your arthritis is acting up again, too?”

Ser Barksalot whined softly, then rested his head on Zevran’s thigh. The elf eventually acquiesced and scratched the mabari’s ears.

“I have no idea what that means,” sighed the man. “You have survived the Blight, killed plenty of bandits, and sired many pups. It is more than most mabari do. Surely you would be content to remain at the Keep, begging for table scraps?”

The mabari was silent, though gave Zevran a pitiful look whenever the elf would stop petting him.

The sky was overcast, threatening snow–or worse, sleet. The air had warmed some, but not nearly enough. Nathaniel rode beside Millagre, who was content to be left alone. Alistair trailed them, wishing he had someone to talk to who wasn’t one of the dwarven merchants. Every once in a while he fell back to make sure Zevran hadn’t rolled off the back of the wagon.

“You are rarely this exhausted,” remarked Nathaniel as they crested a slight hill in the path. The snowmelt was more noticeable in this area, the grasses more clustered and vibrant.

“We have been on the road since well before dawn, and we had a surprise demon attack. I’d say this is normal.”

Earlier he had watched Millagre’s head fall forward, eyelids sinking, until she’d suddenly wake up–only to repeat the pattern a few more times. Nathaniel thought to stay close in the event she looked about to fall off her horse.

“That I’d understand. But even before that.”

“Living in a cold tent for a week isn’t conducive to great rest.”

“Hmm. Perhaps that’s all it is.”

“Of course that’s all it is. Don’t overthink it, Nate…anyway, I’d be more worried about Zevran.”

“Are there healers at Vigil’s Keep?”

The question came from behind them, from Alistair. He was alert and attentive in spite of the morning’s battle, and in relatively good spirits for suffering his fair share of bruising. If anyone had asked him why he was feeling so chipper, he might have pointed out that they had survived being slaughtered by a giant Fade demon  _and_ they had not seen any darkspawn since leaving the Deep Roads. But no-one had, and Alistair was beginning to feel left out of the conversation.

“Eavesdropping now, are we?” Nathaniel smirked.

“Maybe I am. But it’s a legitimate question. We’re due to arrive at Crestwood any day now, but how long will it take to get back to Vigil’s Keep? And then to Amaranthine, or Denerim?”

“It’s not as though we’re without doctors, Al.”

The man snaked a hand through his bed hair, somehow managing to improve upon its appearance. “Look. All I’m saying is, Redcliffe isn’t far. You want to have someone look at Zevran as early as possible. The mages, they have spirit healers among them. It’s fast and quick and painless. We’re both friends of the Arl, we should have no problems.”

“If any mages are still alive,” sighed Nathaniel. “You are forgetting the Conclave happened.”

“They can’t all be dead. But yes, the mages will probably be more than a little upset about that whole thing.” Alistair frowned, as they had not heard further news from the south. “They always are. Still…well, it’s just a suggestion.”

“Commander. We could meet up with Velanna, if she’s still there.”

The Warden-Commander glanced between them. It had been weeks since the Wardens had received their individual assignments, so it was unknown whether or not Senior Warden Velanna and her team might still be in Redcliffe.

“Might be best,” she said at last. “Provided the roads are passable. We’ll send word to the Seneschal when we arrive in Crestwood.”

Nathaniel nodded. “They’ll be sure to have news on the Breach we heard about, too.”

“Good news, I hope.”

“As do I.”

“So, Al…” Millage urged her mount, Patches, to fall into step with Alistair’s (previously Zevran’s). “We might be staying together for a little longer than we anticipated.”

“If I hadn’t been okay with it, I wouldn’t have made the suggestion.” Alistair chuckled softly, and Millagre saw the edges of his lips creep up into a smile.

He had freckles now. Had he always had freckles?

“Don’t you worry, Ser Commander. I’ll be on my absolute best behavior. I  _promise_.”

Millagre eyed him with amusement. “You’d better be.”

For a split second, she thought she might look back and see the others: Leliana, with her orange hair and cheerful disposition, walking side-by-side with Wynne. Then Morrigan would be behind them, separate from the others close enough and ready with clever quips.  Either Shale or Sten would bring up the rear guard, and it was always someone’s job to make sure Oghren didn’t become too drunk along the way and pass out. Zevran occasionally took this duty upon himself, once he was trusted enough to walk behind the others and not run away (or kill anyone).

The pull of nostalgia was immense. The Blight had not been a merry time, Millagre knew, and it had ended unhappily for a great many people. Some of her friends had stayed, most had scattered to the four winds. Wynne had recently passed.

She had yet to visit Andoral's Reach.

“You are aware that you’re staring, right?” Alistair’s smile had broadened some. “You’re looking at me as though I just grew a second head.”

Millagre cleared her throat and averted her gaze politely. “What if I told you it’s a cultural thing?”

“What, staring? Is it supposed to be a compliment among your people?”

“Could be.”

“So really, you mean to tell me that all those fellows back at the tavern thought me…handsome, I suppose? …Right. Somehow I doubt that.”

“Someone’s angling for a compliment.”

“I’m not angling for anything, my  _lady_.”

“Was just thinking, actually. Being alive suits you much better than the alternative.”

“Oh.” Alistair was at a loss for words on that one, and could only manage a, “You, too.”

She returned to him a soft, mellow smile before urging her mount to catch up to Nathaniel.

 


	11. The Road to Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Stonecipher and her lovable entourage of misfits take the path south to Redcliffe. They meet with an old acquaintance of Oghren's along the way, find evidence that the Templar-Mage war is still going strong, and just generally get on one another's nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't imagine the sort of tensions that ran through their camp during the Blight when there were far more personality clashes and the looming possibility of the end of the world. How exciting things will get when they start to realize this might actually be another 'End of the World'.

Crestwood had been a miserable slog.

They had parted ways with the dwarven caravan there, which then proceeded on to Denerim. The residents could offer no quarter that night, and they spent an evening searching out drier conditions. They managed to find an old farmhouse, modestly intact and evidently abandoned.

They were cold, wet, and hungry.

Nathaniel had expressed discomfort at how exposed they were, with the horses out back and broken locks on the doors. _We don't know why it was abandoned_ , he'd said. _Could be marauders about_.

Zevran agreed with him and said no more, though it was obvious the riding had exhausted him. The elf was injured and was loath to extricate himself from his bedroll. If they were beset by bandits, then he would endeavor to react. Until then, he would simply rest. He had tried--in vain--to urge Ser Barksalot to leave his side, but the mabari mutt was strangely protective of him.

Millagre and Alistair spent half an hour attempting to rig tent canvas over their horses to ensure they were sheltered from the rain. When they re-entered the farmhouse, each was soaked to the bone. The rain had gotten under their armor, and the humidity had breached even the Warden-Commander's helmet, which, when removed, had styled her hair into a perfect geographical model of the Frostback mountains.

She noticed that Alistair was feeling chills as he peeled off his armor. The rigors of travel and combat had been more than he'd experienced in quite some time, not to mention he had sustained a serious concussion a week prior.

It took a while for Nathaniel to properly start a fire, which had been a grand victory in and of itself. There was no dry kindling to be had outside that room, which was also not wholly dry, and they were without a mage. The rest of the evening they spent in various states of undress, huddled under blankets while they hung their permeated linens to dry on a makeshift line, which caused everything to stink of sweat of human funk. The Wardens ate rations, including the last of the _tezpadam_ jerky, which Zevran rejected outright in favor of their remaining hard biscuits. 

The rain had let up the following morning, and they proceeded south along the main path. Refugees were pouring in from Haven and Redcliffe due to warring in the Hinterlands, and several spoke in quivering tones of the Breach. That the migration was a steady one and that they were heading in the opposite direction was disconcerting.

They stopped at the Lake Calenhad Docks just before midday. What had been a small settlement sprung up around the travelers and trade to and from Kinloch Hold was now barely more than a roadside tavern and a few houses. Now it was the site of a refugee camp. The ruins of the Tower were a constant reminder of the chaos around them.

The Wardens caught the attention of the men and women there. Once reviled by Fereldans, the Order had become a symbol of hope. If Alistair hadn't seen it before, he saw it now, reflected in their faces. _How times change_ , he thought. _Grey Wardens are in, Templars are out. We must all look powerful and mysterious._

Then he examined the rest of his comrades. The Commander had clambered off her horse and was walking with a definite hitch in her side, as though sore from riding, and Ser Barksalot had claimed a warm patch of grass. _Yes, behold our fearsome war mabari_.

Alistair stretched, taking advantage of his free movement. He glanced over at Nathaniel Howe, who was taking a swig of water from his canteen.

"A question. _Why_ are we stopping here? Not that I'm complaining."

"To visit Felsi and her daughter, I imagine."

"That name sounds familiar," said Alistair. "But I don't know if I remember a Felsi."

"Oghren's ex-wife." Nathaniel tightened the cap upon the canteen and tucked it back among the saddlebags. "They had a child together, then Oghren left her to join the Wardens."

Alistair's eyebrows rose. "He _what_? Why would he do such a thing?"

"Which are you questioning?" Zevran was leaning in their direction, keen on distracting himself from the ache in his ribs. "That he left his wife, or that he would join the Wardens?"

"I'm questioning why he'd leave the _child_. The Joining could have killed him."

"From experience, there are certain members of the opposite sex, and occasionally of the same sex, which lead one to make poor life decisions." The elf closed his eyes, the breeze off Lake Calenhad sifting through his blond hair. "Love, real or alleged, cannot fix the natural chemistry of a relationship."

"You're saying they're a bad match. Fine, I get it. I just don't understand why people aren't more careful about that sort of thing."

Beyond the horses, he could see the Warden-Commander speaking with two other dwarf women. It was strange to see three together on the surface like that, he thought. One dwarf was slightly shorter than the other, and Alistair wondered if that was the child. She had almost fiery red hair and was wearing a calico dress. Were they all that height by nine or ten?

"Just--if I had a son, or a daughter, or whatever, I'd want to be there for them."

"If only more men were like you, Alistair."

"You sound like you're mocking me."

"Not at all, my friend. It is a noble thought, and you might very well mean what you say. I wonder, though, out of all the children I was raised with, how many of their fathers said the same things to their mothers?"

Nathaniel was now peeling an apple with his pocket knife, and delicately eating the slices. He slipped one to Ser Barksalot.

The topic was making Alistair uncomfortable. Being the secret bastard son of King Maric sounded like a delightful little paradise compared to being raised in a brothel and then sold into slavery.

"You're a very cynical person, aren't you?"

"How strange... I've been told I'm an optimist."

* * *

 

"It's a bad time to be on the road, Millagre."

"Yes, the longer we remain here, the clearer that becomes. Still."

The Warden-Commander threw a glance back at her men (and mabari). Felsi dusted her hands off on her apron, then beckoned to the Inn.

"We might have to shut down _The Spoiled Princess_. Goods are being held up, we're missing our regular shipments. I've had to start dipping into my own private still just to have something to sell, not that most can afford it right now."

"Might be time to make that decision," Millagre muttered. "Vigil's Keep is limited in the number it can hold, and if both Denerim and Amaranthine begin turning others away, we'll meet our capacity."

"I don't want to have to abandon this place. It's--it's not much of a legacy, but it's our home."

Felsi rested a hand upon her daughter's shoulder, then rubbed it affectionately. The woman was nervous, and there was no telling whether or not the war might claim the Inn.

"Your home is wherever your family is, Felsi. Without your daughter, the Inn is just an empty building. Without the Wardens, Vigil's Keep is...just an old, dusty keep. You are a part of the Grey Warden family, so don't let an old building get in the way of staying safe."

The woman looked at her then snorted softly. "I can't believe you say that with a straight face."

The Warden-Commander sighed and then extended a letter. "Take this, just in case."

"And what is this?"

"An introduction. You present it to the Seneschal and he will arrange accommodations for you at Vigil's Keep."

Felsi accepted the letter without hesitation, then tucked it into her apron pocket. "Your help is appreciated, and we will consider the offer."

"Warden-Commander?" came a voice to her right.

"Yes, _Millie_?"

Millagre looked down at the young lady, who, through no coincidence, shared a similar name to the Warden-Commander. She lacked the nervousness of her mother, and perhaps she did not fully grasp the severity of the situation, having grown up in relative comfort on the shores of Lake Calenhad.

"My father isn't with you this time. He is okay, isn't he?"

"Last I saw of him, he was just fine. No need to worry."

"Would he be at the Keep, if we went?"

The reason for the question was obvious, and while Felsi would have to carefully weigh the benefits and consequences of coexisting with her ex-husband on the same several acres, Millie was fond of the idea of seeing her father, Oghren, Vanquisher of the Blight.

"That's where he'd be headed after finishing his mission." Millagre scratched her neck. "As soon as we conclude our affairs in Redcliffe, we, too, will be returning there."

"I'd like to see it," chimed in the young dwarf.

"All right, now. We need to stop holding up the Commander of the Grey." Felsi urged her daughter towards the Inn's door. "She has darkspawn to fight, and _we_ have bread to make."

Millie pouted but did as she was bidden. The dwarf woman cast a wary look back at Millagre.

"If you mean to reach Redcliffe, watch out for the Templars. Word has it that they have amassed outside the walls. They have no reason to trouble the Wardens, but you never know."

"I won't forget the Templars. Thank you for the warning."

Felsi nodded. "Stone preserve you."

When she returned to her cabal of Wardens, both Alistair and Zevran immediately quieted. This gave her pause, and she looked among the three men with a small measure of suspicion.

"Discussing anything interesting?"

"Nothing of note, _querida_."

He smiled sweetly at her--to Alistair, it seemed almost saccharine, and he frowned. "Sure, if you count Oghren's personal affairs among _nothing of note_."

"You know, Al - a man's past isn't supposed to matter when he joins the Wardens." The Warden Commander drove one foot into the stirrup and hoisted herself upwards. It was her way of shutting down the topic.

"That sounds all well and good in theory, but in _practice_..."

Alistair made a move to mount the horse again, but Nathaniel intercepted him.

"We're switching again." There was no question, no suggestion, no room for protest. The archer swept himself gracefully into the saddle, and that was that.

"Oh, lovely... Well, joke's on you. I happen to be fine with walking."   

"Then there's no problem, is there?" Nathaniel motioned to Ser Barksalot. "Keep an eye on the mabari, though. If his injury worsens, you may have to carry him."

The mabari in question sat up upon hearing his name and began wagging his tail. Alistair scritched the beast's ears. He was evidently so practiced at this skill that Barksalot began thumping his hind leg against the earth.

"I'm not carrying a mabari all the way to Redcliffe."

"Are you suggesting we have the Commander carry him? That would give the proper impression now, wouldn't it."

They bantered back and forth a while, continuing even until the small settlement had faded from view. A sense of exhaustion was creeping back into Millagre, and it may have had something to do with the night spent in Crestwood. But then, as she reminded herself, they all had some degree of exhaustion. This was _hardly_ unique to her.

* * *

 

At their current pace, they would reach Redcliffe sometime after sunset.

A consensus was reached, with a unanimous vote to press on in spite of the time constraints and the dangers of traveling at night. It was clear that however calm the road may have been so far, such would not continue to be the case.

There were bodies.

The first two had been struck by a volley of arrows. The Warden-Commander had knelt down to inspect them while the Warden-Constable surveyed the area with his eyes. He shifted uneasily in the saddle.

"Too many hiding places here. They could be watching us as we speak."

Millagre reached around the shaft of an arrow and plucked it from the body. The arrowhead was in fine shape, and the blood was still fresh. That meant it was easy to clean.

"More arrows if you need them."

"Leave them be," said Nathaniel, sighing. "Andraste help us if I need more than I have already."

She lingered a moment longer but quickly regretted doing so. The corpses had been there for a few hours at least, if not the better half of a day, and though their fetor had yet to truly manifest the stench was overwhelming. Millagre's stomach roiled dangerously, and she pressed a hand to her face to cover her mouth and nose, gagging. She staggered to her feet and moved away, towards a robust laurel bush.

"Millagre--" Alistair proceeded after her with some concern, though Zevran was also curious, and drew his horse around. When the former came upon her, she had bent forward and retched a long, tenuous string of saliva. Her stomach had been empty.

When she finished, the Commander sucked in a deep breath and perched on an adjacent rock. Nearby, Nathaniel Howe dropped from his horse to examine the bodies more thoroughly. Alistair might have objected had he watched the Constable slip his fingers into their pockets, but he was focused wholly on the Warden-Commander.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, folding his arms. "Would you like some water?"

"I'm fine, Al. Just give me a second."

"Are you sure?"

Zevran approached upon horseback. They had managed to splint his leg to make riding more bearable, but the assassin still had lingering injuries from his fall. Even though they had soured his mood on the whole, he managed a calm tone and neutral expression.

"Perhaps it is simply stress? Here is an idea: we spend some time in town, recuperate from this excursion. Even better: the both of you guilt the Arl into letting us stay with him."

"You don't even need me for that. If it's Millagre asking, I'm sure he won't refuse."

"Why do you say that?"

The dwarf woman peered up at the man, her hands come to rest on her thighs. She spoke with an air of idle curiosity. Alistair gaped at her in disbelief, as though refusing to acknowledge the possibility that her question might be genuine.

"Oh, I don't know," said Alistair, with an undertone of irritation. "He may know a great deal of people, nobles from this land and that, but Teagan talks about you quite a bit. Not to mention you're a default name on his guest list. I'm privvy to that sort of information, you know. Doesn't even matter what it is--a baby shower for the Lord of Highever? Let's invite the Hero of Ferelden."

"Is that true? I'm always on the guest list?"

"Oh, for Andraste's sake--"

Zevran chuckled politely, then cleared his throat. "You seem to be feeling better, unless I am mistaken?" Sweat had slicked his palms, and he furtively wiped them on his cloak. He then tightened his grip on the reins, keeping his spine erect, though no position was such that it could eliminate the pain every time he breathed. Oh, he had had worse before. Much worse.

"For the most part," she said, then heaved a sigh as she proceeded to stand.

The assassin watched quite carefully as the Captain of Redcliffe, _or whatever he is now_ , extended his hand to his Commander, ostensibly to help her to her feet. It was a simple gesture, though he also saw Millagre accept it without hesitation. 

It should not have bothered him, but it did.   

"Wrangle the Howe," said Zevran with an air of authority. "We are wasting time here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of levity here, but that won't likely last. The next chapter will see them into Redcliffe where they will have a chance to meet yet another old friend, which they may not be terribly happy to see, and it will become harder and harder to stay out of the conflict swallowing Ferelden and Orlais. Personal drama among the Warden entourage may also play a part. So far they've kept their banter relatively mild...


	12. Apostate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They face another obstacle on the perilous road to Redcliffe. When they finally arrive, they learn that the City is under new management.

There were more bodies, evidence of recent battle. Stumbling upon open warfare was rarer than not due to the size of the warring parties and the limited time frame of _actual_ battle. Fights were often decided within the first minute of engagement. One minute of combat tested the efficacy of a warrior's training over their whole lifetime. If by chance the fight lasted longer than that, it spoke of matched skill. At that juncture, the battle became a test of endurance. Whoever outlasted fatigue usually became the victor. 

The number of bodies had been surprising. No-one had bothered to burn them.  That would require manpower, resources, and the motivation to honor the dead. Yet there were no standing armies, no real sides save for idealogical ones. Perhaps the Templars would strike out to recover their own dead and commend their brethren to the Maker in the usual way, but that time was not now.

"A war zone." Nathaniel trailed both Millagre and Zevran. "They cannot all be Templars and mages. Does the same hold true for their killers, I wonder?"

"There lies your answer."

Nathaniel followed Zevran's gaze to a naked man whose body lay contorted at the foot of a boulder. Blood had spattered all over a sharp point in the rock, suggesting that he had either been extremely unlucky and dashed his head upon it--or someone slammed him against it.

"A fine specimen of manhood, too," sighed the elf wistfully.

"It certainly is on display." Alistair seemed vaguely embarrassed, and he refused to look wholly upon the prone form.

"I had meant to speak of his other more salient features. That cropped dark hair and chiselled physique, for example. But yes, his pride is also considerable."

But Nathaniel had caught on to his companion's other meaning, and he became grim. There was no knowing who the man was, or how he had come to meet his fate. That was the point.

The Templars on the whole stuck to their mission of hunting down apostates and other such dangers, and the majority of mages were simply interested in fleeing their pursuers--the minority in slaughtering them.

"Someone out there took everything he had," mused the Warden-Constable. He felt for his grandfather's bow, as though to reassure himself it was still there.

"You're right. I don't suppose he left the house this morning without his smallclothes?" Alistair sounded unsurprised--but then, thievery had always been an issue along the trade routes. Redcliffe had its share of hangings.

"He is certainly not Antivan," quipped Millagre. "If looks are anything to go by."

This prompted a tiny grin from Zevran, which Alistair saw; he assumed this was some in-joke shared between the two of them.

"Quite true, my dear Warden."

"Perhaps this one is just terrible at Wicked Grace." His voice deadpan, Nathaniel had fixed his attention ahead on the road.

The path led through a choke point between two steep faces of rock. If someone were up there, shrouded in the natural Hinterland flora, then they were already spotted.

Zevran had pulled his horse around so that he faced his companions, particularly the Warden-Constable. "Intriguing. I sense that our friend has some delightful experience with card games. And a certain version of a very _certain_ card game."

"That I do. A great deal of experience."

"Bad experiences, any of them?"

"I did not win them all, if that's what you mean."

"Now there's an idea," said the elf with a most suggestive smile. "Grey Wardens playing a friendly game of Wicked Grace."

"I am hardly a pushover," Nathaniel reminded him, his lip curling upwards. "But why do I have the feeling you don't actually mind losing?"

"It's true, I tend to take such things in stride. But do not think I would throw the game simply for your pleasure, Nathaniel."

"Oh, I _know_ you wouldn't."

"I'm starting to feel sorry for the poor bastard now," said Alistair as he sighed. "He's dead, and here we are making light of the situation."

* * *

 After a brief moment of deliberation, and realizing that they would have to backtrack much too far to reach Redcliffe at a sensible hour, the five took a chance and pressed onward.

Lady Luck did not appear to favor them. When they hit the narrowest point along the pathway, several horsemen appeared ahead of them, charging at full speed.

"Trouble ahead," murmured Nathaniel under his breath. "They've seen us. There's no escaping this one. Thoughts, Commander?"

Patches scuffled back and whinnied nervously, and Millagre wheeled about, scrutinizing both routes. They could attempt to break through the line if they rushed right then, but Alistair would lag behind and they risked great injury.

"Code word to engage is _darkspawn_ ," she said. "Suggestions for non-engagement?"

"Crows?" Zevran shrugged slightly. 

Nathaniel appeared thoughtful. " _Stones_ ," he said a moment later.

"Clever one, Nate. Thank you for the stereotype."

"We could go with _rocks_ , if you find that less racially charged, Commander."

But Millagre was not offended in the least; indeed she might have been tickled by the suggestion had they not been beset by bandits. " _Stones_ it is," she said. "But I'm sensing _darkspawn_."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. Code words?"

Nathaniel bore an inscrutable expression as he glanced down upon the warrior. "If the Commander uses either word, it informs us of her imminent plans."

"Oh." _We used to do that,_ thought Alistair distantly.

"They may not wish to parlay with us at all, of course," added Zevran.

The assassin had pulled a vial from his belt and was inspecting the label. When he confirmed its contents, he flipped open the top and downed the liquid. Alistair noticed he kept an array of different vials when the man slipped the empty container back into place just behind his belt loop. Alistair was somewhat curious as to what exactly Zevran carried.

There appeared to be some seven men on horseback, three of which were bearing Templar armor. Templars were imposing even on foot, but upon mounts they looked like armored cavalry, as formidable as any proud chevalier. They slowed upon approach, and Alistair was willing to hold out hope that these men were honorable representatives of the order. They had no quarrel with the Templars.

"Ho, there!" called out Millagre. "Lovely afternoon for a ride, isn't it? But charging ahead like that is bound to give the wrong impression."

The leader of the group lifted his helmet so that they could see more than his eyes. He was no callow youth, but also no aged veteran. _Possibly Millagre's age, or a bit younger_ , was Nathaniel's thought. The man's features were intensely Fereldan, with dark eyes and a soft chestnut scruff around the chin. He also wore a red bandanna over his hair, possibly to collect sweat.

"We gave exactly the impression we meant to," said the stranger, though he seemed to be watching all five of them carefully.

"Are you Templars?” Alistair stepped forward to make his presence known. Though the more he examined their faces, the more _wrong_ it all felt. “I trained as a Templar for a time during my time in the Chantry. We are on the same side.”

“Are _we_ Templars?” the man exchanged looks with another of his colleagues, and he smiled mockingly. “Andraste be praised, but no. Look, I’ll make this simple for you.”

He drew out a sword, of apparent fine quality, tasseled in the back. It had been an officer’s sword at one point. The weapon was pointed at Millagre, though they were much too far away for it to have been of immediate threat. It was, however, a statement of intent.

“Your money or your life.”

The Warden-Commander did not respond immediately. She stared at him, at the sword, at the six men who trailed him, no doubt sizing them up. _If they all swarm at once, it will be a problem._

"You would rob those responsible for ending the Blight?"

“We’re equal opportunity here, Warden.” The non-Templar licked his lips. “Why should you get any special treatment? Besides, I’m not entirely convinced you _are_ Wardens. Could have picked that armor up anywhere.”

“Like the way you stole your armor?”

“Would be a shame to have let this rot.” The man tapped his finger against the breastplate, which sounded with a faint _ting_. “Speaking of armor, we’ll be taking yours, dwarf. And you, big-nose.”

Nathaniel very slightly narrowed his eyes.

“We’ll take yours as well.”

This was not exactly what Zevran had in mind with his earlier suggestion of _Wicked Grace_ , and it was a shame that both the Warden-Constable and his own beautiful Warden-Commander were being coerced to strip rather than doing it of their own volition.

“And what of the handsome elf?” pressed the assassin. “I could very easily strip myself of armor too, you know.”

“This is strictly a business transaction,” said the bandit leader. “We are professionals. Other bandits may debase themselves, but we do not. We simply want the armor. Oh, as well as your horses, and all your gold.”

“And if we do not comply with your requests?” asked Millagre.

“As business professionals, we deliver on our guarantees. By which I mean we will kill you. It's your choice, my lady.”

There was an archer trained on them even now. It was unknown how proficient the man was with his crossbow. If he had the same talent as Nathaniel did, then it was likely one of them might be dead after the first stroke of battle. Zevran was quick no doubt, but injured, and wore only leather. Nathaniel would make an enticing target as well, given as he was also an archer. There were also the vulnerabilities in her own armor and Alistair's, but they were the same vulnerabilties possessed by the mounted bandits in Templar armor.

“We will comply,” sighed the dwarf defeatedly. "Off your horses, everyone."

This caught Alistair slightly off guard. "Are you serious?" he asked her. "Are we really going to just do what they say?"

Millagre stepped off her horse and heaved a loud sigh. "I'm sorry, Al. I've lied to you. Nate and I aren't really Grey Wardens. We've never even killed a darkspawn before, and we wouldn't know how. What this man says is true--he took one look at us, and I'm not willing to risk it just to hold up this facade."

Zevran was attempting to oversell the schtick by looking melancholy and extra fragile while Nathaniel Howe assisted him from his own mount.

"As long as we make it to Redcliffe in one piece, it will have been worth it. Trust me on this, my friend."

"Well, I suppose you're right," he said uneasily. Alistair heard the word _darkspawn_ , though he was not sure if they had actually gained an advantage by pretending to capitulate. He itched to draw his sword, but even reaching for the scabbard would tip off the bandits.

"I'm really disappointed you lied to me, Mill...dred," he added unconvincingly; acting was not his strong suit.

And right as Millagre reached to unbuckle her plate, she instead changed tactics and lunged forward into the fray--which, by most estimations, was foolhardy. The archer saw her streaking towards their own leader and loosed his arrow upon her. It could have been fatal, but it glanced across the wing of her helmet, knocking the headpiece loose.

The dwarf did not retrieve it; she ducked low to avoid a swing from the bandit leader, dashing under his horse. The man jerked on the reins, trying to flush her out from beneath the stallion, but with the other horses in the way and with the narrowness of the path, it merely created confusion.

Zevran and Nathaniel used both their mounts for cover to dissuade the archer, and by the time another bolt was fitted into the crossbow, Nathaniel had fitted and shot his own arrow.

It lodged in the man's throat, effectively choking him with his own blood. He slipped from his saddle, but his foot caught in his horse's stirrup as he toppled to the ground. The creature was becoming frightened and trying to lose the burden, rearing and side-stepping into the other beasts.

"Shit, Desmond's down!" someone cried.

Alistair had rushed a second man in heavy Templar armor, or at least as best as he could. His opponent attacked from a position of power, holding the advantage of gravity. His shield arm ached from the night that he'd been beaten into the ground by the Pride Demon, and threatened to collapse on him. Still he persevered, recalling the at-once familiar and spontaneous dance that was battle.

The Warden-Commander, meanwhile, had to contend with very nearly being trampled. As long as she stayed beneath the horse, however, the man was not able to reach her effectively. She fumbled for a short loop of rope she often kept on her belt, only to find it was no longer there. 

No-one had remembered to take the makeshift clothesline down when they'd left Crestwood. Or if they had, it was in one of their saddlebags.

There was no time for regret now, especially not when another man on horseback came up between the non-Templar Alistair was concerned with and the one attempting to flatten her. The spear he bore was unwieldy in such a confining space, but the weapon had an edge over the common sword: its reach. The sharpened spearhead struck her square in the breast, glancing off her plate.

Warden-Constable Howe had stepped out from behind cover and was awaiting an opening, but Ser Barksalot had thrown himself at the bandit leader threatening his mistress. He barked quite ineffectively at the horse, then attempted to latch onto the enemy's leg--also ineffective due to plate, but highly distracting to their enemy.

Zevran might have been of more use with his bow, but remaining at a distance while his wife fought did not sit well with him. He could feel the pain in his limbs receding--not so much disappearing as he was simply becoming numb to it. The draught had not worked as quickly as he hoped. But it would have to do, and he sprang forward.

In slow-motion he saw the spear extend all the way beneath the horse, and for a moment forgot to breathe. The fate of the figure beneath was not immediately apparent. All that he could do was assail her attackers and hope for the best outcome.

Millagre evaded and caught hold of the spear on the second attempt, which was highly fortuitous; he had been aiming for her lower abdomen, which was covered only by chainmail. Even if the weapon had not pierced her, it would have been an unpleasant experience, to say the least.

 _And possibly fatal_ , she thought distantly.

The dwarf warrior pressed the shaft against her hip, gripped the polearm tightly between her fingers, and pulled with the full extent of her body weight. She managed to wrench it out of the man's grasp, though he did not lose his balance.

Then she thrust the spear back in his direction, cracking him in the face with all the force she could muster.

In that instant, Millagre felt a pommel strike her in the back of the head. The world spun, and she must have fallen forward, instinct compelling her to catch herself on her elbows. Her mind screamed at her to pick herself up again, and she did, but not before seeing Zevran wrench the bandit leader off his horse, slamming him into the ground beside her. He kicked the man's helmet off, and before the assassin could slit his throat, Ser Barksalot had done the honors, shredding muscle with his powerful canine teeth.

Millagre regained herself, stunned though she had been, and abandoned the spear for her blades. Over her shoulder she saw Alistair strike a blow against his opponent, though he had not managed to mortally wound said opponent--yet. The spearman from earlier stood between them both, having been forced from his mount. His main weapon gone, he had resorted to a short sword. The dwarf took the initiative, leaping forward. She anticipated his first swing, side-stepped so that it missed, and then rammed into him.

The spearman lost his balance when the Warden-Commander pressed her advantage. She swung both weapons simultaneously, the longsword cutting diagonally across his stomach and the dagger catching the soft flesh beneath his armpit. His leather armor had protected his middle, but the smaller blade caught the axillary artery. Blood began to rush liberally from the wound; he clamped his arm against his side, seeking to cover it and apply pressure.

Yet he was not willing to abandon his offensive capabilities to do so. He hurled himself at her with the short sword once more, but Millagre ducked and caught the undersides of his fingers. The blade sliced through the leather of the gauntlet, but she kept the dagger there. Then she swung her full blade downward in an arc, in the opposing direction--and severed his hand at the wrist.

Well, for the most part. It continued to hang on to the stump somewhat, but the shortsword clattered to the ground. There was little hope for the man's survival, as there no healers and no doctors within range. So she thrust home, into the man's throat. The perforation was whole and total, the skin offering precious little in the way of a protective buffer.

The dwarf twisted the dagger gratuitously before deigning to remove it from the corpse.

Alistair was staring at her with his mouth agape as she finished, having slain his own opponent a moment before. "Was that really necessary?"

She did not grace him with an answer. Perhaps it was not, but it _felt_ necessary, which was the important thing. Meanwhile, Nathaniel had mounted his horse again for a better vantage point. The assassin was exercising a fun new tactic he learned, which largely involved de-seating all the men in a creative fashion so that Ser Barksalot could maul them.

When Alistair spotted Zevran, he saw that the assassin had managed to garrote a man with a steel wire. The body had just stopped twitching.

It was quite understandable when, seeing the tide of the battle turning in the favor of the Grey Wardens, the remaining bandit turned tail and fled. Even Zevran seemed glad of that turn of events, and he began to relax, so far as he was able in his condition. Alistair lowered his sword and shield.

But Millagre? A switch flipped inside of her.

She grabbed hold of the nearest stallion, a proud Fereldan Forger, and hoisted herself upon him. The beast resisted very little, and with minimal trouble she urged it to follow the escapee. Then she was off, driving the stallion forward with a shout, barreling across the uneven Hinterlands terrain with scarcely a worry.

"Maker's _breath_ ," huffed Alistair. "What is she doing?"

Nathaniel Howe drew his horse forward, then aimed his bow. He hesitated--both riders were fast leaving his field of vision when Zevran pressed a hand against his thigh. "You'll hit her, Nathaniel. Just go, go after her. We'll catch up."

The Warden-Commander's right hand set his horse at a gallop and followed in pursuit, though the mount was likely not as quick or well-rested as the others.

Warden-Commander Stonecipher tore through the woods, cresting fallen logs, splashing noisily through a standing pond as her prey tried to elude her. She could almost smell his fear. He would glance back in terror at her--the small dwarf woman who was quite possibly a Grey Warden after all--and redouble his efforts, spurring his steed to go faster.

Thrill coursed through her. Sensation was all that abounded in her--and the pulse of the Calling. She surged forth like an Archdemon, ready to snap him up into her jaws, to tear him limb from limb, to feel her fingers tearing into his flesh and reducing him to nothing. The stallion was beating terribly against the earth, bearing her to her target, huffing with effort.

Then they were on a wide stretch between mountains, the land replete with just enough hills and valleys so as to obscure the terrain more than a quarter mile ahead. The other horse was tiring, as was her own. But Millagre's body was on fire, and when they drew close enough, she slashed and cut, striking out at the bandit.

The weapons hit home, and horizontal slits in the man's tunic suddenly became large, weeping eyes. Stricken by panic, as well as pain, he brandished his blade wildly in her direction. Millagre parried with her dagger, but soon found that she was bleeding on her opposite arm. Where the wound had come from, she could not recall. The bushes, perhaps, or the prior encounter? It was not important.

She could have used one of the many poisons she carried on her, but in the heat of the chase she slid her longsword along the open wound. She was no magic-bearer, but she sought the feeling of the taint which flowed through her, becoming highly cognizant of its movement. It pulsed, just like the Calling, just like her heartbeat. With her spirit, she willed that darkness within her.

Something deep and evil whispered to her, and the blood seeped more freely from the open wound. The tainted plasma seemed to take shape, to conform to the blade in spite of gravity. Millagre ignored the feeling of lightheadedness this caused as she flourished the sword once more.

She gave the horse a rough nudge forward, and it strained at the command, but overtook the other just long enough for her to slice a shallow divot into the bandit's forearm.

It was enough.

She trailed him for a time, allowing her Forder a change to recuperate his strength, and in the back of her mind wondered if she would be able to find the path back to Zevran and the others. Like a vulture, she kept the bandit within her line of sight, waiting.

Minutes later, he slumped forward and fell off his horse. When Millagre drew up to him, he was convulsing on the ground, his eyes wide in shock. The dwarf leapt off the horse and then crouched by the bandit's side. He grasped lamely at her, trying to bat her away. She merely grabbed his tunic and pulled it out from the waistband of his trousers, examining him. He was, after all, a walking cadaver.

Blackness had spread through the veins radiating outward from where she had cut him last. It was not true Blight sickness so far as she knew. But she also knew not the likelihood of surviving the Taint, however minute it was.

She examined the bandit's face. Haggard, but from the strain of years rather than age. Soft cropped hair, laughter lines. Sweat poured copiously from his brow.

Then she thrust the dagger up into his ribs, pressing into it with all the weight of her body, feeling the flesh tear and rip asunder. It slid in easily and came naturally to her now.

Then the blade was withdrawn, and she watched the last erratic rise and fall of the man's chest before he stilled and his soul was called to the Void.

Moments later she felt a presence behind her--sensed its taint. _Darkspawn_. She whipped about and then recognized the familiar face of Nathaniel Howe, who moved cautiously, uncertainly. "Nate," she addressed him. Turned away from him again, down at the body. Swiftly her hand moved to cover up the vestiges of the corpse's blighted blood.

"Millagre," he addressed her in return. The title of 'Warden-Commander' was a formality and seemed inappropriate at this juncture. They had known each other for the better part of a decade.

"You managed to find me."

"I followed as soon as you left," he explained, his voice soft and reverent. "Rarely did I lose sight of you. And when that happened, I had only to sense your direction."

"Thank you. I know I should have let him go."

Nathaniel regarded her then, the woman now covered in dirt, grime, and blood. Her quilted tunic was shredded beneath her armor, a leftover reminder of their encounter with the Rift in the Frostbacks. When he saw the open gash on her arm, Nathaniel rifled through his pocket and produced a cloth. It was a handkerchief that he would use to filter his drinking water.

The only sound was his voice and the crunching of soft grass beneath his boots as he drew closer to kneel at her side. She jumped at his touch before willing herself to relax. He undid her pauldron silently, then moved to tie the handkerchief around her. The wound probably needed to be sterilized at the next best opportunity.

"That could have been me." Her tone was subdued, and her breath slowing to normalcy. "I started off in the Carta, in Orzammar."

"He was nothing like you, Millagre."

"I should have spared him," she insisted. "A second chance, maybe."

"The law would not have been kind to this man," said Nathaniel patiently. "He would have ended up in the gallows, strung up by the neck. They were horse-thieves by the look of them; the one you borrowed looks like one of Dennet's."

"I've smuggled lyrium worth more than that horse."

"You probably shouldn't spread that around." The dark-haired Warden re-attached her pauldron for her, then sighed into the wind. "In any case, what's done is done."

She was beginning to feel cold, her skin prickling uncomfortably. Early spring in the Hinterlands was still quite chilly. There was nothing she would have preferred more than to be cuddled up with Zevran at that exact moment. "Maybe we ought to say a few words? Have a proper send-off."

Nathaniel arched an eyebrow. "It will have to be quick. How does it work in Orzammar?"

Millagre struggled to think, through a haze, of an appropriate send-off. The Dusters had never had true dwarven funerals; at best someone cared enough to haul any dead duster off to the nearest lava sink. This was, coincidentally, the same way dwarves disposed of their refuse.

Unfortunately, there was no lava about.

"We have songs, or hymns, spoken in the old tongue." And after a moment, she produced with an unsteady tongue: " _Atrast tunsha Salrokas va'na Kal Repartha._ "†

The bowman nodded slowly. "But what does it mean?"

"The title of an old drinking song. _Farwell to Old Friends Gone to their Sleep_. Or, something like that, anyway." She side-eyed Nathaniel. "I'm a terrible dwarf. That I left Orzammar able to read and write in _common_ was astounding enough; the old tongue is outside the scope of most casteless."

"What about the Chant?"

"The Chant?" Nathaniel rubbed his chin, then cast his gaze downward. "I haven't read the Chant in years."

"Anything you remember."

The Warden-Constable nodded his head slowly, then waded through the recesses of his memory, when he had attended sermons at the Chantry. Then he spoke:

_"Draw your last breath, my friends,_

_Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky._

_Rest at the Maker's right hand,_

_And be Forgiven."_

* * *

When Millagre and Nathaniel returned with their extra horse in tow, they saw that their comrades had already lined up the remaining seven horses, having tied them together. Ser Barksalot was the first to notice the two of them; he hopped to his feet and wagged his tail, yapping excitedly. When Alistair saw their approach, he quickly removed the Warden-Commander's helmet from his head and held it under his arm.

"Safeguarding that for me, were you?" she asked when they drew near.

"Yes, I wanted to make sure no-one snuck off with it. In case there were more bandits." Without further ado, Alistair offered the griffon wing helmet to her. She took it without much ceremony and plunked it down upon her head.

"Fit you well," she teased. "If you rejoined, you'd be granted such a helmet."

"Mm, that is true. Very tempting. _But--_ I will just have to be satisfied with my regular, un-wingèd and very uncool helmet."

Millagre then sought out Zevran, who was lounging on a half-decayed log pocked with shell fungus. He seemed relieved to see her, and she pulled the great stallion up beside him. The elf willed himself to his feet, then assisted her off the creature. When he perceived Alistair's attention on them, he snaked an arm around her, possessive, pulling her close.

"You fought well, my dear, brave Warden. To think that I once had a hand in your training brings a tear to my eye. And also to the Crows', as I suspect."

“I’ve had a devoted teacher,” she crooned. “Who continues to challenge me each and every day.”

He laughed softly, affectionately, and placed a hand on her cheek. “ _Enanita mía_ , _te adoro_.”

Before Millagre had time to object to the nickname, he leaned in and kissed her sensuously, his free hand caressing the back of her neck, just beneath the helmet.

Alistair averted his eyes but could not block out the faint puckering sounds. As was common in Fereldan culture, he simply pretended not to be hearing any of it, and wandered over to bother Nathaniel, who was also pointedly ignoring the blatant display of affection.

When Millagre embraced Zevran in return and squeezed, he grunted in discomfort. "Ease up a little," he wheezed, teeth clenched. When she pulled away, his smile was strained. "I apologize, everything is not quite at one hundred percent."

"Will you be all right until Redcliffe?"

"I have lived through worse," he said coolly. "But I admit to looking forward to having a mage wave their magical fingers and making it disappear. Shall we continue on?"

Nathaniel had looped two horses to his Dalish All-Bred while Millagre gave Zevran a boost onto his mount. Alistair hoisted himself gratefully onto one of the Forders, sighing with relief at being off his feet. "I hope you don't mind that we're taking all these," said the would-have-been-King-of-Ferelden. "They are stolen property and need to be processed."

"Alternatively, we could fence them at a discount."

The man sighed in aggravation. "Are you really suggesting that we profit off stolen property?"

"A finder's fee," supplied Zevran innocently. "With the proceeds donated to charity. Or, in this case, the Grey Wardens. It would be for a good cause. What is the harm?"

"You are a terrible person, Zevran."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

When Alistair turned around and scanned for Millagre--to ask for her intention on the matter--he did not see the dwarf sitting astride any of the beasts. In fact, upon the Warden-Commander's horse was Ser Barksalot, the reins held loosely between his jaws. The mare was, strangely, completely fine with bearing the mabari on her back.

He cocked an eyebrow in disbelief as the dwarf woman scrambled onto the massive Fereldan Forder she had used in her earlier chase. She seemed to resemble even more of a dwarf than usual due to the stallion's larger size and had had to adjust the length of the stirrups.

"You trained your mabari to ride horses?" he asked, incredulous. 

"Seemed a bit silly at the time, I'll admit. But it worked out in the end."

They were hours from Redcliffe when they resumed, and it occurred to Alistair that an entire train of horses would be an enticing target for further bandits. Luckily the Hinterlands' other inhabitants did not seem to care much about their passage: birds, the occasional druffalo wandered out from its enclosure, rabbits, and so on.

It was two hours later when they were confronted by two Templars along the road. The men were in the full regalia of their Order, and their plate _sparkled_. Alistair had intensely disliked how they had made him shine his armor every morning before inspection. They were highly suspicious of the Wardens' cargo at first glance but then recognized the griffon insignia on Millagre's breastplate.

The female Templar, shrouded in the same head-to-toe armor as her male companion, announced that she recognized the two that were present and that they were indeed legitimate. She had been stationed in Amaranthine some years ago, she said, after the passing of Knight-Captain Rylock and had seen them in person.

Minutes later, she was treating Ser Barksalot to a well-deserved scratch behind the ear.

When Alistair informed them they were taking the horses into Redcliffe, neither Templar batted an eyelash (from what could be surmised from their hidden expressions). They would report this encounter to Ser Hadley, they said, and that the Grey Wardens were welcome at their encampment down the road.

"I wish we had bumped into them earlier," said Alistair wearily. The sun was low on the horizon, outlining the mountains in molten yellow. "Maker, what a day."

Nathaniel nodded his agreement. "Indeed. But it's not long now. I can see the Castle from here, just over that rise."

* * *

It was well into the evening when they arrived at the front gate. It was, as the Templars had briefly informed them, closed. None of them relished another night of camping after their recent memory of Crestwood. The guard out front stiffened as they approached, and rightly so, as she was alone in her vigil and her comrades a shout away, beyond the gate.

"Declare yourselves," she demanded, drawing her bow. "Redcliffe is closed due to all the fighting."

The rest of the Wardens halted, but Alistair drew his horse up to the gate, proceeding slowly so as not to raise the alarm.

"Hello, Felicia," he said amicably. "Night shift again? Must be short-staffed."

The guard lowered her crossbow once she heard his voice and saw his face in the firelight. From her expression it appeared as though she'd seen a ghost. "Captain Alistair? Is that really you?"

"It is." His eyes twinkled with amusement. He had forgotten how much he had missed his charges, had thought he would never see them again. The Redcliffe Guard was the closest approximation to his family now.

"It really _is_ you," she repeated, an expression of starry-eyed wonder. "I can't believe it. The Arl said you'd gotten the blighted lung, but rumor had it you'd been murdered."

"Murdered?" he scoffed. "That's ridiculous. Who would murder me?"

"None of us rightly knew, ser. One of the mages, it was said. Then the Arl was deposed and we all figured it was related."

Silence followed. Alistair pressed his lips into a full frown and then raised a hand. "Hang on, wait. _Deposed_ , you said. As in, _overthrown_?"

"You haven't heard, Ser?" The soldier glanced this way and that, then lowered her voice, as though nervous that someone might be listening in. "I suppose you wouldn't've. Not days after you left, a Tevinter Magister showed up. Nobody was really very keen on his presence, Captain, not even the mages. But opinion changed, and now they're supporting him. And, well..."

The young soldier looked guilty. "The Magister forced the Arl out. He left for Denerim days ago, taking only a handful of us. The rest had to stay here and keep order, he said. _Don't let anyone in or out_ , he said."

"What is a Tevinter doing here in Ferelden?" Nathaniel's face was engulfed in shadow, and Millagre could see only the outline of his brow.

"I don't suppose he is here for the sunny weather?" chirped Zevran.

"This is no time for jokes," Alistair said over his shoulder. "So who is running the town right now?"

"Er, no-one. Most affairs are on hold, but Captain Kinney is keeping order. Or maybe Vice-Captain. No disrespect meant to you, Ser. He was promoted after you left."

"A complete mess," he sighed. "I can't believe it. The Arl kicked out of his own town. I leave for two weeks, then _bam!_ Out of nowhere, pandemonium?"

"You must have an exceptional knack for good timing, Ser." 

Alistair shook his head. It was all too much to process. The Calling, weird demon-spitting tears in the Frostback Mountains, holes in the sky, bandits, Tevinter Magisters, mages and Templars, and no Arl in sight. He rubbed his temples.

 _"_ Listen, Felicia. I understand your orders are from the Arl, but could I trouble you to let us in? We aren't here to cause any trouble. My friends here are Grey Wardens."

He waved them all forward. Millagre nudged the side of her dark-haired Forder. He was an imposing creature, and when hergriffon helmet caught the light, it gave her the appearance that her head was wreathed in forged flame.

“This is Warden-Commander Stonecipher. You know, the _Hero of Ferelden_."

 _And after all that pouting about her title earlier_ , thought Zevran silently. But he was also too tired to argue or tease Alistair further. They had done enough.

"By the Maker! It is you--I remember," said the woman, voice rising an octave. "You were at the Arl's fête. I was working security that night. That was something, it was."

"It was something, wasn't it?"

Zevran was nearing the end of his rope. "My beautiful Warden. As much as I would enjoy hearing about your social exploits, perhaps we can put off the discussion for another day."

The Antivan pulled his horse closer so that the young soldier could see him more clearly, angling his head such that he might appear at his most attractive to her. "We have travelled long and far, and have fought many battles. My companions and I, the Warden-Commander included, bear recent scars. Surely you would not deny the wounded and weary treatment?"

Felicia paused. "I suppose I can make an exception for you. You don't look like Templars who are trying to sneak in and cause trouble."

"Have they tried?" wondered Alistair. "To sneak in, I mean?"

"Well, yes, but with their tower shields, it's a bit obvious."

"Perhaps the mages' fears aren't _entirely_ unfounded, then."

After the gate had been opened for their ingress, and after they had herded the recovered property inside, the young soldier presented Alistair with one lasting smile.

"Glad to have you back, Captain.”

* * *

Millagre had never seen the streets of Redcliffe more crowded. The city had opened itself to all refugees after the destruction of the Conclave, apostate or no, and tents lined the boulevard. They could scarcely fit their horses through the streets.

The remaining guards were surprised to find Alistair alive. Less surprising, however, they responded to his orders as though he had never left. He had his men see to the horses.

Perhaps it was the fatigue weighing on her, but as Millagre watched him slip back into his role as Captain of the Redcliffe Guard, she thought she saw glimpses into another world, of the man who might have been King. Even after all this time, he still seemed a good man with a strong sense of moral rectitude. He had been smarter than he'd ever given himself credit for, in spite of Morrigan's teasing.

Perhaps he was better leader than he'd originally expected, too.

Alistair had been injured somewhat in the previous battles as well, and such was his reason for accompanying them into the city. That and "seeing you were all taken care of," he had said.

"But it's really the paperwork. Can you imagine trying to track down the owners in this climate? I'm leaving **that** until tomorrow."

"My earlier suggestion still stands," Zevran reminded him. "No paperwork needed."

"Until the Sixth Blight comes, I don't want to hear anything about commandeering stolen horses."

It soon became apparent just how elusive treatment would be, however. The usual doctor had skipped town along with Arl Teagan, and some of the mages they did find refused to help them. While in theory not as difficult as finding the Urn of Sacred Ashes, it seemed as though Zevran would have to be content with bed rest.

Millage asked as to the location of the other Grey Wardens, and the only information she could gather was that a small group of Wardens had been seen in the city, but no information as to where they might be currently. It was a vast city, and after dark. Finding Velanna and the junior Wardens was unlikely, particularly as they might not wish to be found.

Then they received word of an after-hours clinic which was located on the city's edge, far from the population center. Alistair led them all up a winding series of steps, towards a ramshackle wood building.

If Nathaniel had to guess, he would have said that the townspeople were actively avoiding the area. Not a soul could be found as they approached--save for two soldiers were standing watch at the sides of the door.

"Captain Alistair!" exclaimed one of the guardsmen. "You're alive? We'd heard you'd been murdered."

"Not murdered," he squeezed out through two heavy breaths. "Still alive. Do you know how many times I've heard that on the way here?"

"Too many, from the sound of it."

The air was cool and silent. Millagre could see a faint light from beneath the door's threshold. She thought she saw a shadow move from within.

"Listen, I was told there was a clinic here," Alistair pressed, and he gestured to the door. "Up in the old gamekeeper's hut. Unless they got that wrong?"

"Well, yes. I mean, no." The second guard exchanged hesitant glances with his colleague. "This is definitely _the_ clinic. But..."

"But what?"

The first spoke again, but this time in hushed tones. "The apostate," he said. "He's under house arrest by order of the Arl. He's good, I'll grant, but sort of crazy."

Alistair's hand trailed down to the hilt of his sword. He was just about to ask exactly _why_ said apostate was under arrest, and what sort of 'crazy' the man meant. At that exact moment, however, the door opened. Orange light flooded out into the dark night, emanating from a glowstone the mage held.

"I can hear you all out here chattering like excited clams. You'd better not be driving anyone away again."

"No, Ser--"

The mage had stuck his head out, and seeing that they all shied away from the light source, brushed his palm over the glowstone. This halved its intensity. There was a pause before the apostate cleared his throat.

"Well, don't just stand there. Come on in. We don't turn anyone away."

The warmth inside the building was welcome. Millagre was reminded of her quarters back at Vigil's Keep, where she was surrounded by stone and a warm hearth. This building was inferior, being built primarily of wood, but it would do. Small for a true clinic, but sufficient for all six of them (Ser Barksalot being the sixth). Nathaniel was helping to support Zevran, but the former had gone quiet. Alistair was the last to file in.

"Thank you for seeing us at this late hour, Ser."

"Oh, it's no problem. That's what I'm here for."

Then the mage turned, fully illuminated. He was a man fast approaching middle age, with shaggy blond hair, and a formidable layer of chin scruff. Had his grooming been intentional, he might have been the poster child of _apostate hobo chic_. As it was, he had been under arrest without access to a razor and was simply in dire need of a shave.

He glanced at Millagre, and then at Nathaniel. His eyebrows seemed to rise slightly at Zevran Arainai, whose reputation extended beyond the borders of Ferelden.

Zevran overtly waggled his eyebrows, as though to say: _Why yes, I have been to Kirkwall and I know exactly who you are. Who will speak first, I wonder_? 

It was a complicated game of back-and-forth they played, all four of them. They all recognized one another, for better or worse, to the obliviousness of Alistair. 

"More Grey Wardens, eh. You're the second group I've seen in so many days. Are you having a party here at Redcliffe? If so, you might want to rethink the venue."

“Did you hear that, Nate?” said the dwarf sarcastically. “We may have to cancel the fancy dress party.”

Nathaniel nodded somberly, though he had yet to take his eyes off the mage. The apostate sighed as he examined the bedraggled Wardens. The Warden-Commander looked as though she had rolled halfway down a hillside, and even the mabari had an injury.

“Well, no-one looks to be on death’s door quite _yet_. But you’ve all had a rough time getting here, that's plain to see. Nathaniel--”  He used the man’s first name. It was the name by which he had always called him. 

Whether Nathaniel or Millagre would wish to associate with him further, given the events of the last several years, he could not guess. He would not blame them, and it was their right to distance themselves. He would not take it personally, and it would not affect the quality of care he intended to provide. Some days he wondered why he even had the one friend he still did. 

Or _two_ , rather.  _Two_ if one were to count the one person who was always with him.

“--your friend there,” said the mage as he gestured to Zevran. “Help him over to this cot.”

The archer did as he was asked, and the assassin grit his teeth with effort as sat down. The mage pulled a dividing curtain over the area, offering Zevran a modicum of privacy, then quickly shooed Nathaniel Howe back towards the seating area. 

"I will need you to take off your clothes."

"My, but you are forward. What would my wife think?" They could hear the Antivan laugh from beyond the divide, then stop short, coughing.

"I see the problem. Just your tunic will do for now," piped the mage, and not without a hint of mirth. "Lie back and be still."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> †The language of the dwarves completely eludes me. Just roll with it.
> 
> Also, I have way too much fun writing banter, silly as it is. Someone needs to take the keyboard away from me. Might be more feelings in the next chapter. The Warden-Commander is withholding secrets, Zevran has his own self-doubts to grapple with when he's not busy looking awesome, Alistair is likely at the top of the chain of command now, and our new mage friend is probably struggling to find his purpose again. And Nate, well, maybe he just wants a nap.


	13. Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran is insecure that his lovely Warden may be falling for someone else, and the Warden-Commander confesses a secret to him. Anders is concerned with the occurrences in Redcliffe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a talky chapter. Lots of talking. I apologize for being about to alienate those who have made it here. There is open and frank discussion about sex (I mean this is Zevran we're talking about, this is probably tame for him) but not really anything dirty, and then TMI about reproduction. There is also an intimation of abortion later so if that bothers anyone just watch out. No visceral images that I can think of.

 The clinic had grown quiet as they descended into night.

Their wounds had been seen to, eventually. Millagre could scarcely believe that the marks on her arms gone, leaving behind only the tattered threads of her uniform. Her head throbbed less as well, and she was more alert than she had been all day.

All the pain gone.  Just like that.

Zevran slumbered deeply on the cot from earlier. A cracked rib, fractures in his leg, and multiple contusions. They had not been life-threatening as far as she knew, but they had not been pleasant.

He did not like to admit to being in pain, for being in pain was to be vulnerable. The Crows were renowned for being susceptible to great amounts of torture and never breaking. To what lengths had they gone to inculcate this attitude in him? He had never gone into great detail in regards to his own experiences, but Millagre suspected the methods had been thorough.

Then she turned her attention to the man sitting at his writing desk. It was an old, somewhat rickety piece of furniture, with a thin book beneath one of the legs to steady it. The mage was scratching his pen onto the parchment, in a long, slanted, spidery hand. _The mark of an educated man,_ she noted.  

"How is he?"

"Your husband? Sleeping like a wee babe." He paused mid-sentence, then saw to the completion of his written thought. "I didn't realize you were married, by the way. Not exactly what I'd have expected. Should have sent you a wedding present."

"We eloped, actually." Millagre folded her arms as she paced leisurely behind him. "Presents aren't worth the pomp and ceremony that would have been."

"Oh, so you're a romantic." A trace of amusement snuck into his tone. "That's cute."

"Cute?" She frowned. "You're not just saying that because I'm a dwarf?"

"I didn't say _you_ were cute. You are rather terrifying, I've seen you." The mage smirked and rested an arm over the back of the chair. Then his expression became somewhat more serious. "The idea of marrying who you want to, not caring what anyone else thinks. You and him, against the world. More people ought to do it."

"It _was_ worth the official reprimand from Weisshaupt."

The object of her reprimand seemed completely oblivious to their conversation. Zevran was not a heavy sleeper by any means, and he had occasionally feigned sleep to eavesdrop. She doubted that was the case now. The steady rhythm of his breath, his hair fallen messily all over his face, the way he only loosely gripped the blanket rather than how he usually cocooned himself tightly within its confines--all signs indicated he was at peace.

For that brief space in time, Millagre could shut out all the world and its problems. Zevran was there, he was with her, and they were both alive. When it came time for him to return to Antiva--a discussion they would be having shortly, Millagre thought with a small pang of guilt--she could worry for him then. But for now, she would simply stand and admire him, basking in the residual waves of affection that flooded her body, feeling the warm tingling sensation even through her fingers.

"Anders."

He had turned away from her, intending to resume work on a reactionary piece, when he heard her speak his name and when felt her hand upon his upper arm. The unexpected tenderness of these gestures brushed something deep within him, feelings which he had not expected to surface. No-one had deigned to so much as touch him in weeks.

He had steeled himself against the stream of invective hurled in his direction, the derogatory epithets that often accompanied "mage" and "apostate," the accusations of murder and terrorism, even the implications behind Hawke's enervated expressions. As such he had braced himself for some sort of reproachful glance, but her look was compassionate, if world-weary.

"...Thank you."

Anders was nearly undone. He was speechless for all of three seconds before he collected himself.

"You're quite welcome."

After a moment, the man set down his pen and closed the book chock full of his commentary. The literature needed to have been finished days ago, then distributed with equal haste. It was probably too late already to change their minds, though he tried not to think about that. But now the hour had grown late, and he had lost his effectiveness.

"Millagre," he said, testing the name on his tongue. It felt natural. "Would you like some chamomile tea?"

"Sure, I could use some."

He pushed himself to stand and strode easily over to the small fireplace, where he hunched down. She gawked as he lit the hearth with his fingertips, then placed a pot of water over it.

"I'd offer you something stronger, but I'm afraid I already drank the last of the wine." That it was the full bottle in one sitting the previous morning was a fact he did not intimate.

"I prefer tea," she added. "Much to the great shame of my ancestors."

"That the dwarves built such a great, long-lasting civilization with most of its population inebriated is impressive, but not something to be quite proud of."

"We start young, too." Millagre watched Anders' hands as he carefully set out a small tin, and from which he portioned out two teaspoons of shredded dried chamomile flower.  "It's to stunt our growth so that our heads don't hit the cave ceilings."

"I know you're joking, but there's probably a kernel of truth there."

As they sat with their teacups, the Warden-Commander felt the fatigue set in. There were a multitude of questions she had for the mage, not the least of which involving an explanation regarding his last mission as a Grey Warden. He had been sent with some junior Wardens on an expedition to investigate darkspawn in the south of Ferelden, then disappeared. Further investigation uncovered only the remains of several humans charred into a state such that they could no longer be identified.

She'd only received news of Anders' existence years later when Carver joined the Order and requested to serve with the Ferelden Chapter "far, far away from Kirkwall."

But that was a discussion best left for another time. There was a far more pressing matter to contend with, one which had been in the back of her mind since its inception.

"You are still a Grey Warden."

"Depending on your definition, I suppose." The apostate cradled the teacup in his palms. "At this point it seems like a stretch."

"I can sense the taint in you," she insisted.

"And I in you, but that goes without saying. Sort having an exclusive membership to a club you don't want to be in, isn't it?"

The woman leaned forward. "Tell me, are you also hearing your Calling?"

Anders drummed his fingers along the lip of the cup, then set it down on the crate he was using as a coffee table.

"I am, yes," he confirmed. "As are you?"

"As are we all. So far, no Grey Warden I have met is an exception to this rule."

"Ah. _That_ would explain why Velanna was a bit tetchy." Anders gave an awkward smile, staring down at his hands. "And before you ask, yes--she did visit. Very briefly. Unlike her Warden-Commander, she thought it would be inadvisable to be seen talking to me."

He met her eyes then. There was an untested depth behind them, pools whose bottoms could not be seen.

"There is some wisdom in that, Millagre."

She brushed aside the warning, refusing to break eye contact. "You don't seem all that concerned."

"No. I'm already living on borrowed time, ever since...well. We won't talk about that." His lips curled tightly. "You might say I have a _laissez_ - _faire_ attitude about it. If corruption doesn't take me first, then I will probably die fighting. But even though I started hearing that music, I don't feel any different."

He rolled up his sleeves, turned his arms over. Millagre stared at them. She was always curious about the long-limbed nature of humans, but his arms appeared normal, coated in light blond hair.

"No blight, no nothing. I have treated Blight Sickness before, and I'm asymptomatic. Ignoring the attributes that Grey Wardens possess, of course."

The Warden-Commander leaned back in her chair. "No visible corruption. I'm assuming you're checking more than your arms."

"Naturally. I cannot say what is causing this Calling. As for a cure to the Blight, that is beyond my area of expertise. But what I can offer you is a story."

"A...story?" she repeated.

“Are you leaving early tomorrow?” When Millagre shook her head, he relaxed. “Then perhaps I will tell you when you have slept. Nathaniel may also be interested, and I suspect you will want to write it down.”

“I don’t know what Weisshaupt told you,” he began. "But if I know anything about Wardens, I'll wager they did not say much." 

* * *

It was a throng of voices which woke her eventually. The conversation could be heard long before she became aware that she was still in the clinic. Anders' voice was erudite and distinct, but low and respectful, perhaps mindful of his sleeping guest. A feminine voice interrupted at intervals, its pitch rising in accordance with its owners distress. This was followed by a deep, phlegm-filled clearing of the throat by a third party.

Her instinct protested such an early awakening, and bleary-eyed, Millagre found herself staring at a bookcase. Various tinctures and alchemical ingredients lining the shelf, each labeled per their use. At least two kinds of elfroot--and on the top shelf, she noted, deathroot extract. Suspended in the clouded liquid of a glass jar were its distinctive purple flowers.

A thin cotton blanket covered her.

A young human lad, no older than eight, was surveying her. While his sister and mother were engaging the spirit healer's full attention, the boy had been drawn to the dwarven woman and her two weapons now propped up against the side of the chair.

She was immensely relieved to see that they were still there. The weaponsmith Wade had once forged an unparalleled creation made of dragonbone from beasts she had slain, and it had been the talk of legends. _Vigilance_.

Then one of the Antivan Crows had decided to steal it from her while in the field. Ever since, Millagre had a marked paranoia regarding her weapons. It had also made Zevran uneasy at the time, as he had been abroad. The assassin was uncertain as to whether or not the theft was meant as a tactic of intimidation against him or if a client had simply wanted the very rare blade.

Her current blades had been recovered from the ruins of Ostagar, many months after the death of King Cailan. Though formidable and invaluable, they held rather more sentimental value than anything else.

Alistair might have paled to realize whom they had once belonged to.

"Are you a Grey Warden?" asked the lad with no shortage of curiosity.

"Yes." Millagre stifled a groan as she pulled herself up stiffly. _It will only get worse from here_ , was her next thought. _Ancestor's stones, it has to be today._

The young man was not deterred by her lack of her sprightliness. His face glowed brighter than ever before. Indeed, when it came to Grey Wardens, some people willfully ignored reality.

"Mum says the only people you can trust these days is a Grey Warden," he went on. "Doesn't like all the _apple-states_ around here."

It was early. Or felt early, rather. Millagre set to folding the blanket in her lap, feeling in dire need of a bath.

"Or the Templars," the boy prattled on. "They came onto our land while Father was gone. And they took our chickens, even Agatha. Mum said _Grey Wardens_ wouldn't do such a thing."

 _Except we would_ , Millagre thought, _assuming we really needed chickens_.

"I told her I wanted to be a Grey Warden."

This statement caught the Warden-Commander's attention. While the Grey Wardens had never been reviled in Orzammar, Ferelden had distrusted them ever since Dryden's failed coup. Millagre knew that popular opinion had shifted, but it was jarring how children seemed to think being a warden was a "calling."

"Did you, now?" The dwarf came to stand, only slightly taller than the lad but far more muscular. "And what did she say?"

"She cried," he answered. "I don't really know why."

The mother had taken notice that her son was speaking with Millagre now. _Disapproval_ was the word the Warden-Commander might have used to describe her expression. Then, as she studied the woman further--who could not have been older than Millagre herself, from what she understood about human aging--she saw her manner of dress.

Normal, save for a black cap on her head.

The Warden sank to a whisper. "What did your father say?"

"I didn’t tell him yet. He’s still at Haven. Mum says he’s probably working for the Inquisition now.”

 _The Inquisition_. She had not heard the word spoken until recently, but it jogged a memory. An old name that had once been synonymous with the Templar Order and the Chantry long, long ago.

The Warden felt sympathy for the woman, who no doubt turned to Anders, an _apostate_ , simply because she had no other recourse. She was alone now and the sole caregiver of two children. Just as Kalah Stonecipher† had been.

"Well, my young friend. The Wardens might accept you when you’re a bit older,” she began carefully. “We are always on the watch for promising recruits to help us fight darkspawn. But first, **you** have some growing to do.”

The Warden-Commander clapped his bony shoulder and forced a grin. “Take care of your mother and sister. _Then_ come see me in ten years, beansprout.”

 She nodded an acknowledgment to Anders as she left.

* * *

Zevran Arainai was strutting about camp like a rooster around the hen house. Whatever Anders had done with his hands had worked miracles, and not just on his physical body. The return of his vigor had raised the elf’s spirits to new heights. His confident laughter resounded as she approached.

It was a harmonious sound.

Even Nathaniel was grinning, no doubt the result of some joke. The archer was jabbing at their makeshift fire pit, over which hung an iron pot. The breakfast would likely be stretched and bland, but the weather was fair--if cool--and no-one had died.

Alistair was nowhere in sight, but that was to be expected.

“Morning, boys.”  

“Morning,” echoed Nathaniel. “You were up--”

The Warden-Commander was suddenly set upon by the mabari, who shot across the camp and then jumped up to greet her. He scrabbled his dirty paws against her chest, tongue wagging, acting very much as though he had not seen his master for the better part of a year. In reality, it had only been an evening.

“--late.” The Warden-Constable exchanged a look with Zevran.

The woman took his paws, one in each hand, grinning ear-to-ear. “Hello, good morning! _Good morning_! It's good to see you, too!”

And then she planted a big kiss on Ser Barksalot's forehead, a gesture which he had grown to recognize was a sort of _human_ thing. The mabari did not understand why they simply did not lick each other, as he had seen her doing before with Zevran, but enjoyed the attention anyway.

"Do you think she's taught him how to dance?" Nathaniel mused aloud.

The dwarf and mabari were almost equally matched, height-wise. When Ser Barksalot rested his forepaws on her shoulder, they almost looked to be dancing.

Zevran did not bat an eyelash. His demeanor had mellowed, and he folded his arms, regarding his wife carefully. "I would not be surprised if she had."

From the cooking pot, Nathaniel drew forth a large spoon full of hot, slightly gummy oats, speckled with raisins. "He kept watching the clinic's door," added the Warden-Constable. "Whined for the better part of an hour."‡

After forcing the mabari down, the Warden-Commander continued on to her golden-haired assassin and moved to kiss him.

The elf laughed playfully. “You are going to kiss me with that mouth after kissing your dog? Ah, I keep forgetting this is Ferelden."

Zevran relented, of course. He was woefully under quota in terms of affection.

"How are you feeling this morning, Zev?"

"Good. Marvelous. Ready to take on a whole talon of Crows with my bare hands, perhaps." The smile fell from his lips by degrees, and he drew closer to Millagre so that only she was able to hear him. "Say, do you mind if we have a chat? It is a beautiful day, full of hope and promise and cheer. And yet... I feel that there are some things which need to be said."

"There are, yes." _Quite a few things_ , thought Millagre.

Zevran beckoned her more towards the edge of camp, farther away from Nathaniel Howe. The latter watched them go, intrigued as to what they were talking about, but on the whole more interested in his breakfast.

When they were sufficiently alone, more than a stone's throw from the clinic and out of Nathaniel's earshot, Millagre turned to him.

"You first. I'm listening."

"Very well. I cannot help but notice that you have offered Alistair the chance to return to the Grey Wardens."

It was a fact that needed no confirming. She simply raised her eyebrows.  

"This, I must admit, is magnanimous, particularly when one considers the gravity of his offense..." The elf heaved a dramatic sigh. "Abandoning his duty and leaving you to take care of the Archdemon by yourself."

She tensed, as though by instinct. They had not talked about this particular set of events for some time. They had not needed to; both of them had lived it.

"Like the Crows, a person cannot simply _quit_ the Grey Wardens. Or so it has been said. The severance package is much the same, involving a very literal _severance._ Or _severing_ , if we are to be more exact. I seem to remember the tale of your Joining, this warrior who decided he had _changed his mind_ , and how the Commander of the Grey, whose name I regretfully do not recall--"

"Duncan," she supplied neutrally.

"--how this tall, dark, and handsome Commander Duncan of yours skewered the recruit right in front of you."

"And you're saying I should have run him through for the offense?"

"No. No, of course not."

The elf had pressed his hands on his hips, and he turned slightly. Though he always watched for signs of danger in the immediate environment, his mind was currently ablaze with thoughts and feelings with no way to articulate them. Not in the way he desired.

The wind renewed itself, ascending upon them with a bitter chill, a reminder that the season had not truly changed yet and that the sunshine was only a mercy.

"That you would not only spare him but invite him back with open arms is truly generous. Alistair is aware of the offer and has expressed his desire to remain with the Redcliffe Guard. An amicable parting and a happy ending for all."

"It is," she conceded with a slight nod. "I respect his choice."

The man before her paused, allowing silence to settle between them. She narrowed her eyes very slightly, concentrating on trying to read him. _The tricky part_ , thought Zevran. He was highly self-aware, had suppressed all his known nervous tics, kept himself from pacing or letting it be known just how wary he was of broaching the topic.

"Except it hasn't escaped my notice that you extended this offer multiple times, with varying degrees of subtlety."

"I..." Millagre started, then stopped. "I suppose that's true."

He was glad that she had not denied it. For a moment he had thought she might. _Secrets_ were the Grey Wardens stock-in-trade, it seemed. They were also a currency among assassins. Zevran instinctively closed the distance between them, as though what he were about to say were of monumental importance.

"Alistair is dangerous."

She snorted. The statement conjured up mental images implying the exact opposite. Alistair asking Wynne to mend his socks, tripping down the stairs (funny only because he had not been injured), trying bold new ways of styling his singular inch of hair. They had been endearing at the time, and it was a biased selection. These images did not take into account their most recent battles, like she'd seen him charge the Pride Demon.

But then she saw her husband not laughing at all.

He was _serious_.

"He can kill things, but not _nearly_ as handsomely as you can."

Zevran hardened his expression, though the compliment did not pass by unnoticed. "You know what I mean, Millagre." He used no sweet and tender or amusing epithets, simply her name.

"Really, Zev? _Dangerous_?"

"Or maybe you don't," he sighed. "As someone with considerable experience on you, allow me to say this. The first person I had sex with--the first one of my choosing, I should express--was electric. I still remember everything, or at least I like to think I do. But I was very young, and very impressionable. He shaped much of what I knew and what I continued to believe."

He furrowed his brow, peering into the distance. Or perhaps into the past. Zevran seemed to be living simultaneously in his memory and in the present, distracted by both.

"He was, you might say, a terrible person. Even by the standards of the Crows. I killed him much later, of course, but the point is this. With the first time, and the first relationship, there are always...certain feelings involved. Powerful, primal. I have no doubt that in your case there was even some... _chemistry_."

And then he frowned, accentuating the soft lines of age on his face, the scars he had acquired from his campaigns at home and abroad, and Millagre wanted nothing more to run her fingers over them. She reached for him, but he intercepted, enclosing his hand about her wrist.

"Zevran..."

"Do you remember how we traveled together after the Blight? As friends, no?"

"Of course."

"And it was a fine time we had, adventuring, or more aptly put, killing things which were people--or once people!" He smiled at the memory. "But every new town we arrived in, you would ask after Alistair. You were frantic to find him. What you were hoping to find, I do not know. Closure, I expect. Or reconciliation."

"Shit," she murmured, looking down at her boots. "Don't remind me of that. I was, what. Twenty-three?"

"Young--and impressionable," Zevran said, releasing her hand. "But still, a woman."

How halcyon those days seemed, but the Warden-Commander had to stop and remove the rose-colored lenses. She had very nearly died on one occasion. Zevran remembered it clearly, she was sure; he had carried her on his back to Denerim. 

 _Exciting_ , yes. But it was not the best time of her life.

Millagre had not realized how lost in thought she had become until Zevran spoke once more, shifting the topic slightly.

"You are aware of my past--the general important bits, anyhow. You are also aware that I was involved with Taliesen and Rinnala. Both of them, romantically."

Millagre had heard about Taliesen and Rinna before. They had been the most important to him, his closest confidantes. "So you've said. I'm--still not sure how that arrangement worked exactly, but--"

"Did you wish to find out?"

The question caught her off guard. Her brows knitted, but Zevran merely tilted his head, gauging her reaction.

"You don't mean--"

"I do," he sighed softly. "When you asked me to marry you, _querida_ , I agreed with the tacit understanding that we were entering this whole monogamy thing. However, I have not been here with you as often as I intended--"

The dwarf woman had adopted a sort of deer-in-headlights expression. "Um--"

Yet the assassin continued as though it were a perfectly straightforward proposal and he were discussing simple logistics. "As you know, I am open to the concept of a third person. If I am somehow not meeting your needs, my dear Warden, you must let me know--" 

Millagre's cheeks flushed a rather dazzling shade of pink. "What? Zev--"

"--But that third person **cannot** be Alistair."

Her head was swimming at the thought of what he had just suggested. The conversation had certainly changed direction and gone somewhere which--while not out of Zevran's purview--was completely unexpected. She clasped a hand over her mouth, rendered speechless.

"Andraste's--stones--what, _no_. You think I want to--?" Attempting to assemble her thoughts in a logical order, Millagre inhaled. "Sleeping with other people is the farthest thing from my mind right now."

 _Maker's breath_! And she wasn't even Andrastrian!

"Listen to me. I care for Alistair a great deal, but he's not _you_. _Amor_ \-- _vida de mi vida_ \--" Her command of Antivan was shaky, but nevertheless she endeavored to sound natural, sensual. "That ship has sailed. "

This reassurance had the intended effect. Zevran was quite pleased, in fact, and drew her in close. He touched his forehead against hers, the tips of their noses brushing. That he would even begin to doubt her feelings towards him--her faith in him--tugged on her heartstrings a little.

"But there is something I've...concealed," she admitted.

Zevran closed his eyes, held his breath. He was almost expecting her to contradict herself, her recent declaration. He had always been afraid of that, that Millagre might grow bored of him, or tire of him, or realize that he was her second greatest mistake. In 9:31 he had ventured back to Antiva, to Rialto, to tie up some loose ends--ends which he was still tying, years later--but memories of the Warden bid him to return.

When he arrived in Highever, Zevran had received belated news of the darkspawn raids on Vigil's Keep and the attack on the City of Amaranthine. He supposed he would have heard about the death of the Hero of Ferelden had it occurred, but in that moment it felt like Rinna all over again.

Because he should have been there. He had left not simply for revenge against the Crows, but to protect the Warden by not associating with her.

Then he arrived and found her again, a changed woman--brave, and strong, and proud, and all those characteristics which he fancied before, characteristics which had been muted after Alistair's departure. He recalled her glittering in her fine silverite armor, bearing the most dangerous blade he had ever seen, with an equally piercing stare to match. It was a relief to see her not just well, but thriving in her new position.

Then she had propositioned _him_ , long after he had stopped making the suggestion. 

And when the tunic was shed, he discovered she had also been wearing his golden earring--not in her ear, as one might expect, but on a chain around her neck. She had been thinking about him all along.

Zevran still remembered the words she'd said.

 _I didn't think you'd come back_.

_The Crows don't renege on their promises, my dear Warden._

He did not remember what **he** had said, exactly, but it was something very suave like that. He was so very good at pushing the right buttons.

When the morning came, he half expected that she would have sated her curiosity and bid him a fond farewell. After all, there were other devilishly handsome Wardens about, like Nathaniel. Even Loghain had his charms. Part of him had also expected her disappointment. An even smaller part worried that she might have regretted the act.  But none of those things had happened.

When Millagre had invited him to stay, Zevran simply never left.

Well--not permanently. He had to kill people, after all.

He loved her all the more because she understood.

"And suddenly you're very quiet," came Millagre's voice again, breaking his reverie. "This is not easy for me to say, so I will just come out and say it: I'm pregnant."

The words did not register immediately.

There was no _I accidentally slept with Alistair_ or _I think we should reconsider this relationship_ or even _I killed the Guildmaster of House Valisti so now we have more people who want us dead_ , _sorry for making your job harder_. All of these he would understand, to varying degrees.

"What?" Zevran nearly choked.

"Pregnant," she said again, stony-faced. Then she shrugged. "Oops?"

Millagre had not intended to act so casual about the declaration, but she felt a certain detachment from the situation. Her mind had decided to ignore the fact as long as possible, hoping that the problem might fix itself and go away. By acknowledging it now, the condition was terrifyingly _real_ , and fear she was not open to accept at the moment.

The assassin was having a frightful time processing the information himself. It had not really been an issue before, for several reasons, the chief being that the majority of women he had bedded were also those he had been sent to kill; the second, he was a vocal supporter of its prevention in the first place, and knew a variety of remedies; the third, but not last, he usually never saw said women again.

Zevran knew in theory it could happen.

He simply never expected that it _would_.

There were so many factors working against them on that front, not the least being that she was a Grey Warden. Most of them were sterile, or of quickly declining fertility--the effect was not instantaneous, so Zevran understood. Two Wardens who were intimate within the first year of their Joining were still able to conceive, _possibly_ , but after that? Add in natural dwarven resistance to fecundity, the measures they taken to ensure that this very thing would not happen--

He shook his head, whispered in disbelief. "And it's mine? Truly?"

The assassin had meant this in a _This can't actually happen, can it_? sort of way and not the other, more accusatory, _So are you sure it isn't someone else's?_

Millagre seemed merely annoyed rather than offended. "What kind of question is that, dingus?"

This was no battle, but his body reacted as though it were. He felt something grip him from the inside, twisting in his gut. He could feel his breath hasten, his shoulders coiling in tension, his teeth grinding slightly--he willed these away, forced the object from his mind. _Stay in control,_ _Zevran_. 

"That is not what I meant," he said, sighing. "Did this just occur? It has been weeks now since I returned from Antiva. It was the heat of the moment, I suspect, yes? If so--"

She held up a hand to quiet him. "Before Antiva."

The moment he arrived at the calculation was apparent, because his eyes widened in simultaneous fear and incredulity. He pulled away from her, eyes seeking her abdomen, examining it. Dwarves were, by their very nature, robust creatures. There had been a little something there since his return, he'd noticed that. But he had never looked closely, for she had shied from his touch there.

Then, without regard to the fact Nathaniel Howe or even Anders might see them, Zevran began to feel her up. He reached beneath her belt, her tunic, her tabard, until his cold fingers hit skin and she jumped from the sensation. He felt along, probing with soft pressure along her abdomen, until he felt an undeniable hardness. His breath caught in his throat.

 _There was something there_. 

She flushed slightly at the touch. "I am still the Commander of the Grey," she reminded him, highly conscious of propriety. "Other people might get the wrong idea."

He removed his hand swiftly, frowning. "This cannot happen. This simply-- _no_. We both agreed that this would not happen. Millagre--"

"Neither of us is fit to be a parent, I know. You don't think I tried to get rid of it?" she hissed, cheeks burning. "I was sick for _days._ Maybe the dosage is different for Grey Wardens? I don't know! I was afraid to try again, and Nate is _still_ suspicious about the whole thing."

"Why you intentionally poisoned yourself? The Howe is no fool."

Zevran's voice had developed a hard edge, and his words were clipped. It was the logical choice, he knew, and yet when it was _his_ Warden...well. The brothel had been a cheery environment full of these very decisions. He did not want to see a replay of some of the consequences when it involved the woman he loved.

"My sister taught me the trade." She was actively voiding his gaze, arms folded rigidly across her chest. "How to be a noble hunter--to double our chances of escaping Dust Town. I never plied that trade. But she mentioned that if something were wrong with the...fetus, then it--it would come out on its own."

" _Querida--_ ”

"So I hoped that, since I carry the taint--"

" _Stop_."

His chest was _heaving_ with emotion when she looked straight forward, then up to his countenance. It had been ages since she had seen him moved to such a degree. He was visibly upset, fists bunched at his sides, the muscles in his forearms taut and defined against his skin. His voice was strained:

"I--I am sorry. I must--go. We will discuss this...later, yes?”

Then Zevran Arainai stalked down the pathway towards the center of Redcliffe, pulling his cloak tightly about him. A minute later, he was gone from sight, and she stood alone out in the clearing. 

There was something frighteningly familiar about this situation, something she did not want to contemplate.

* * *

Nathaniel Howe finished his last spoonful of oatmeal as he watched them. Whatever they were saying was a mystery to him, and perhaps it always would be. What was fascinating was how Antivans were very expressive people, and how Millagre occasionally mirrored those same traits. Dwarves were generally more stoic.

Until you got to know one, of course. Sigrun could be _very_ talkative--not that Nathaniel minded, as she was an excellent conversationalist, and filled with the natural desire to learn and improve herself. She had taught herself enough Orlesian to hold a conversation with Loghain, for example. Pity the man would invariably become frustrated and say, _This is Ferelden_ and mutter how he had had enough of those mask-wearing hypocrites. 

Then he invested his attention elsewhere--and saw Anders leaning out the side window, hands clasped together. The Grey Wardens had set up their encampment nearby, due to the lack of space elsewhere in Redcliffe and sheer tiredness to move anywhere else. No-one had argued.

 Then the mage noticed and rested a chin upon the palm of his hand. He smiled with unrestrained cheer.

“Hello, Nathaniel.”

“Anders. Good morning.”

The Warden-Constable was wary of engaging with him. It was enticing to think of him as an old friend popping by for a friendly chat, but the mage’s time in Kirkwall had unhinged him, or so the reports said. Much of the Free Marches considered Anders a war criminal to be tried and executed. He was under house arrest by order of Arl Teagan Guerrin for--well, for what, Nathaniel could not be sure, but he supposed it had to do with some sort of trouble.

Now he was curing people’s runny noses and setting broken bones. There was irony in there somewhere.

“Could I trouble you for a favor?”

The Warden-archer looked up from his spot by the campfire. It was awkward speaking from that distance, broadcasting their conversation so that even the guards would likely hear, and he did not want to disturb the Warden-Commander and Zevran overmuch. He left his bowl and wandered discreetly over to the window, where he ever-so-casually leaned against the outer wall.

“When you nip into town later, could you--I don’t know, bring me back an itinerary?”

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. “What sort of itinerary?”

“Oh, you know. That Tevinter is about and busy trying to win everyone over. Sometimes there are...talks. Forums. That sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“I need to keep apprised of the situation.”

“But you would not be able to attend if you are confined to that house, Anders.”

“Then I will just have to ask the permission of that handsome Guard Captain fellow you came in with last night. He seems all right, that one.”

“I--” Nathaniel hesitated, then shook his head. How could he know what Alistair would or would not do? He had been told that the man used to be a Templar with the Chantry, so that was a stretch.

Still, it was obvious the window was quite large enough to permit exit and entry. What was keeping the mage inside, then, was neither the building itself nor the guards. It was certainly not the Arl's decree. What was keeping Anders from running away again?

“I don’t understand why you don’t simply...leave.”

“I don’t have any _reason_ to leave. These people are why I am here. The mages.”

“But you do. They arrested you.”

“It’s only a _sort-of_ arrest. Don’t worry,” Anders chirruped. “I’ll be sure to pack my bags and cut out _right_ before they resort to Tranquility.”

He shook his head--impossible as ever. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re a sweetheart, you are.”

Nathaniel Howe remained reclined where he was, standing beside Anders. How peculiar to be standing side by side again, even for so temporary a time. As though nothing had happened, as though the world had not gone crazy. The view from the hut was stunted by rocks, so the only objects of interest were the Warden-Commander and her paramour.

And then Zevran rushed by, with a sort of controlled fury, refusing to make eye contact with either of them. Millagre stood very still, rooted to the spot. She, too, expressed her own version of being upset--by folding her arms gruffly and pouting, refusing to look in their direction lest she accidentally shed a tear.

"Oh, dear."

"Ah, I had forgotten all the drama in the Grey Wardens. Of course, back then, there were not so many of us, so it must only have gotten worse. Oghren sexually harassing all the women... The Commander stealing your house. A certain female Dalish threatening to kill all the dirty _shems_... "

"Oghren wasn't the only one, as I recall."

"What? Oh, come on. I wasn't _nearly_ that bad."

"Yes, you were."

Anders did not challenge the statement further; rather, he waved and caught the Commander's attention. With some reluctance she wandered over, innocently wiping just beneath her eye. The blond mage quirked an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise?”

"...I'm pregnant."

The Warden-Commander did not elaborate, feeling as though this statement were self-explanatory.  Nathaniel Howe guarded his expression carefully, then offered up a tentative, "Congratulations?"

When she stared at him silently, and the Warden-Constable knew this had been the wrong reaction.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Anders seemed sympathetic, and he was. This situation had not been uncommon among the Fereldan refugees in Kirkwall during his tenure in the underground. "Not to change the subject, but I believe I owe you a story, Commander."

Millagre raised her chin. "Oh, that's right."

"Also--" Anders smiled impishly. "I have cookies."

 

* * *

 

 _Footnotes_ :

† The Warden-Commander’s mother had given birth to two daughters, each by a different father, and had no prospects of escaping Dust Town. Though she no longer had a relationship with the woman who bore her, Millagre recognized the helplessness and despair of her situation at the time.

‡ Anders had temporarily waived the  _no mabari_  policy, but had reenacted it after touching up the pup's paw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: the new plot point... There are plenty of lovely, light and fluffy fics where babies happen and that's all fine and good. I'm sure Alistair and his Cousland Warden will live in perfect wedded domestic bliss. That's fine. Maybe even this Alistair was looking forward to that sort of arrangement too? But Zevran and this Warden grew up in extremely dysfunctional family units, and what kind of job security does being a vigilante-assassin provide? Or a Grey Warden? Doesn't mean they'd actually be terrible, per se, but it's also one of the worst times to have this sort of "problem."
> 
> And we'll be getting back to the actual legitimate plot here too. Alistair might not stand for the Tevinter kicking his sort-of uncle out of Redcliffe, polite though Alexius is otherwise.


	14. Tensions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran recalls a memory from his most recent crusade in Antiva, while Alistair learns of the healer's identity.

The Chantry in Redcliffe was modest by Chantry standards, though it had the traditional hallmarks: the high, vaulted ceilings several stories high; the heavy wood chandeliers hoisted up on chains; stained glass painted a soft translucent red, bleeding light striking upon the foyer--falling also upon him.

 _Poetic_ , thought Zevran as he moved reverently across the age-worn carpet. It was still possible that either the laity or the Arl were pocketing local donations, but somehow he doubted this. The benches were heavy and old, worn smooth by decades of prayergoers, much like he was.

It was fuller than usual, due to the events of the Breach and the influx of refugees, but he managed to find an empty seat, removed from the Chantry's other attendees. A modest stone statue of Andraste loomed to his side, one of many. They had nothing on the masterpieces within the central Chantry in Antiva City, or even the gilded halls of the Great Chantry in Rialto, the latter being the one he was most familiar with.

But the Redcliffe Chantry was familiar, and the types of devoted people much the same, simply lighter in complexion--and occasionally accompanied by a hound. Because it was familiar, it was also somewhat comforting. One of the night-women he had been fond of, Esmeralda, had taken him and some of the other children for weekly prayer. He remembered being five years old and learning his letters from The Chant of Light, how her stream of dark black hair would fall over him like a shroud as she corrected his imperfect hand.

Zevran had kept some contact with her throughout his tenure with the Crows--and last he had heard, she had become a procuress for her own establishment. But that was ages ago, and he knew not what had become of her. But he had continued to visit the Chantry from time to time.

He sat in silence for a moment. On the other side of the building he could hear a woman sniveling and the quiet whispers of those muttering to themselves nearby.

 _Where to begin_? he wondered

The mystery being the _Calling_ had been enough for the Grey Wardens to contend with. They had all panicked, all of them had assumed it was real enough--Alistair had very nearly gone to his death believing it--until his dear Warden declared it _not real_. Zevran was not sure how Millagre could simply _know_. But did that not mean there was something whispering to them all, something that could speak to them through the taint? Generally that meant an Archdemon.

And an Archdemon meant a Blight.

The world outside the Wardens did not know about this; they were much more preoccupied with reports of a tear in the sky. _It's the End of the World_ , he had heard a man say. _Demons raining down everywhere_. _No-one at the Conclave survived._

As if to put a cherry on top of the whole debacle, the Maker--in His infinite wisdom--had allowed the Hero of Ferelden to conceive. Now she was nearly four months along, and that was a _very long time_ to have been along. Millagre had been unable to contact him in Antiva, and she certainly would not have been foolish enough to put such delicate information in a missive.

They were not suitable parents, not like this.

_Mother of Mercy, Lady of Light--probably a ravishing beauty, too, if the Maker chose you as his bride--though you have heard it all before, and in all the languages of the world, I imagine. If you are watching, then you know what has happened._

_The Commander of the Grey has done what you put her here to do. Was it not enough to overcome the Archdemon? Was it not enough to halt the Blight? Or is this for me, and I have yet to atone for all that I have done?_

Zevran paused, trying to think up a convincing argument. He did not know where to start, and it felt quite silly speaking to himself in his head. Still, he knew Millagre only grudgingly spoke to the Maker when she absolutely _had_ to, or felt that it might be beneficial. Even after finding the Urn of Sacred Ashes, she had remained skeptical. So he made up for her-- _just in case_.

Leliana had led her in a prayer the night before the march on Denerim, he remembered. The fate of Ferelden had hung by a tenuous thread that even a Stone-born dwarf had had to glance skyward.

Had Ferelden been saved by divine intervention? It was impossible to say, but Zevran hoped they were still in the Maker’s favor if that were true.

* * *

 

**Antiva City, 2 Months Ago**

"My, Natalia. I remember when we first met, you were little more than a footpad. An errand girl for House Valisti."

The woman breathed unevenly, vision hazy, her free hand pressing down on the knife-wound in her side. The other had been tightly bound to the room's four-poster bed, a piece crafted of a heavy, antiquated mahogany. In a final, desperate attempt, she reached her bloodied hand up to untie herself, fingers clawing uselessly at the thickly braided rope. In a desperate attempt, the one called Natalia had dislocated her thumb, but it had not been quite enough. 

The man watched her struggle, turning his dagger idly over in his hand. He was clad in dark armor, unemblazoned, but the lines etched into his cheek indicated that he was a Crow.

"And now, a grandmaster! You should be proud, my friend. Most of us die out before we have the opportunity to call ourselves as such."

The woman spat venom--figuratively, and also literally, minus the venom. "I have done _nothing_ to you." Zevran sighed at the spittle now marking the toe of his boot.

"Oh, but that is where you are wrong. Aside from your past and present connections with House Arainai. You may not remember, but you convinced your guildmaster to arrange a murder of a woman twelve years ago. She was a fellow bastard, much like you."

There was no mistaking her elf-blooded nature. Not that the signs were definite, of course, as you never could _truly_ know whether such a resplendant beauty had simply been lucky. With eyes as dark as an oil slick and full lips, Natalia Valisti was an attractive woman and bore an uncanny resemblance to Rinnala.

“This is all about some tart you were fond of?” She laughed darkly, and swallowed a lump in her throat. The end was drawing nearer, she knew, and even the Crows feared it. “A crusade to avenge your long-lost love?”

Zevran remained unprovoked. “She was _also_ your half-sister. A shame, truly.”

"My only regret," she heaved, "is that I won't be around to see that smile cut out of your pretty face. But don’t worry, someone else will."

“Most likely.” There was no denying this fact. Zevran had been exceedingly fortunate to live this long, and one chancy encounter could very well end him. The Crows were so very much like Darkspawn, he thought; the more that were slain, the more that seemed to appear.

Natalia was only weakly tugging at her restraint now.

“The Houses are all afraid of you, you know.”

“You are still talking, _Nati_?” he sighed. “Impressive. Evidently, I need to sharpen my dagger.”

“They’ve seen what has happened to House Arainai. They know all about you. They know all about the dwarf, too.”

This caught Zevran’s his interest, and instinctively he crawled forward. “ _Dwarf_?” he repeated.

“One of your... _cuchillo_ allies,” Natalia said, her head falling forward slightly. “Involved with the murder of Tibario de Anidas. He confirmed all of it, as well as the dwarf woman who was there with you. No longer rumor.”

“Alas. Torture brings out the worst in people.”

“Sending one man against the Grey Wardens was foolish,” she murmured. Natalia’s fingers were shaking as he sought to clamp her hand over the wound. But much of the lifeblood had trailed out onto the floor already, seeping into the hem of her bloomers. “But what will happen when the First, Second, and Third Talons send all their best assassins?”

Zevran was quiet, and he moved forward. It could have been a ruse--call him close enough so that she could surprise him with a kick, possibly steal one of his daggers. But he risked this, as Natalia was in a poor state.

“You are bluffing, yes?” Zevran pressed. “Hoping that I might spare you for information?”

She did not answer him, for she was well on her way to the Void. Natalia Valisti went limp against the restraint, and her heartbeat slowed to a crawl.

“ _Natalia_!” he growled forcefully. He felt along her neck for a pulse, and finding it weak. So grabbed her shoulders and shook her roughly, violently, her head flailing about as he did so, striking the back of the bedframe. When Zevran caught sight of her final expression, he saw that she was smiling.

 

* * *

 

Standing out amidst the throng of passerby were the familiar blue-grey tunics of the Grey Wardens, and Zevran noticed them in his peripheral vision while leaving the Chantry. There was a Senior Warden among them; anyone might have gleaned her rank from the fact that she was addressing her charges with the authority and confidence one developed over years of fighting darkspawn.

But Zevran knew this one well. From the ancient, gnarled staff to her willowy build and immaculately pinned hair, not to mention from having unrestricted access to the grouping assignments, he had recognized her before he had even been spotted. There was only one female elven mage in the Fereldan Chapter of Wardens, and she was here in Redcliffe.

"--Velanna," he said in greeting, sauntering up behind the troupe of Wardens. "A most pleasant coincidence, running into you here."

Startled by such an address, Velanna did an about-face, instinctively squeezing the rod to her. Seeing it was Zevran, however, allowed her to relax--if only slightly.

"Zevran. It is...good to see you."

"Truly? You look as though you are about to snap, my friend." Velanna had always been--how to put it? Ah, yes. _High strung_. As the former Crow invited himself into the gathering, he took count of the others, paying no mind to the fact he had just interrupted their briefing.

For the most part, the Warden recruits regarded Zevran as though he were a Senior Warden himself. It was not simply for playing husband to the Commander of the Grey, either. When not abroad or dispatched to some task, Zevran Arainai had overseen certain facets of their training.

"Good morning, Wardens. Calaros." To the assassin's right was a fair-faced elf, originally from Amaranthine alienage. He was perhaps the youngest of the Wardens, yet not the most junior, and had been present for the Darkspawn assault on Amaranthine in 9:31. He had been but a lad then, pursued by a Hurlock, and vividly recalled a painted woman knifing the Darkspawn in the back and saving his life.

Ever since, he had admired the Order, and often pestered any and all Grey Wardens who came to the alienage. He had managed to convince Nathaniel Howe to autograph his practice sword, as the elf had been unable to afford a real one at the time. Millagre had denied him entrance into the Grey Wardens for years, but by the time he was eighteen she retracted her position and challenged him to a battle. Calaros' ears had been red for a week, or so Zevran had been told.

"Jago." The second Warden was a roguish fellow, and not much to look at. He was the face of your typical Ferelden, very average, and had a strange knack for blending in among crowds. This trait would have made for an excellent bard, had he an interest. Zevran did not know the details, but Jago had been involved with the Carta topside, specializing in forgeries and counterfeiting. Apparently he was a friend of a friend of Millagre's.

And last, but definitely not least--"Dalica." Zevran studied the calm woman, reminding himself of how she had been as a fresh recruit. She was quite tall, even by human standards, and had ash blonde hair contrasted with a ruddy complexion. Dalica always looked ten years older than she was.

Several years ago, she had been a "treasure hunter" scoping out the remaining blighted areas in Ferelden. Her party had been beset by Darkspawn, and the majority of them slaughtered. When the Grey Wardens arrived to investigate the Darkspawn, they elected to explore the passage to the Deep Roads rather than destroy it immediately. They found Dalica there, imprisoned by the Darkspawn for several days. The experience had marked her more than the Taint ever would.

"You don't know the week we've had," Velanna replied warily. "We arrived during the Conclave incident, or just after, and have been here since. I'd sent word to Vigil's Keep when it appeared we would be delayed, but...seeing as you are here, I'm assuming that message never made it."

"Alas, if only. We are freshly arrived from Orzammar." Zevran rested his thumbs within the loops of his utility belt, exposing only the tops of several multicolored vials. "We picked up a straggler along the way, which slowed us down somewhat. We came here for healing."

"You and the rest of Thedas," chirped Calaros. "Any all healers were called to task. That meant us too, insofar as we could help."

"Yes, so our mission was delayed. Still, that means the Commander is here as well, then?" When Zevran nodded, Velanna appeared grim. "She is well, I hope?"

"She is--well enough." The Warden-Commander was alive, healthy, and still as deadly as any Crow in spite of her newfound condition. He could not help but feel that she was a time bomb, however.

"I see. And how is...?"

“How is your Warden-Constable?” Zevran smiled slightly, shifting his weight to his other foot. “He is also well. I suspect that he will grow tired of us shortly if he has yet to. If any of you have been to Orzammar, you are aware of the distance.”

“We’ve been before,” answered Dalica. “Or I ‘ave, rather. Right shame to make it all the way to the mouth of the city and then they get all ‘uffy about us being there. Never got to see inside.”

“Ah. You are missing a very enlightening cultural experience, then. The nug-wrangling, the mushroom-growers, the dwarven ale. Sometimes the beds are too short.” There was a thoughtful look in Zevran’s eyes as he stared at some distant point in the sky before turning to the woman. “In all seriousness, ask the Commander to take you sometime.”

The mage straightened, then cleared her throat. “If it is all the same to you, I’d like to make my report in person. Where are you staying?”

“Ah, well. We were camped near the free clinic on the hill.”

“Oh, by the _Dread Wolf,”_ sighed Velanna, when then clapped her staff roughly on the ground. “I assume you’ve talked to _him_ , then. Most of the town is avoiding that place for a reason.”

“I think that is rather the point, my dear Velanna: plenty of space.”

“Hmph. Come on, all of you.” 

The Senior Warden set a steady, if purposeful, pace towards the clinic. Calaros skipped until he fall in line with Zevran, who trailed Velanna closely. Dalica swung her double-headed axe over her shoulder and lugged it up the hill, and Jago merely folded his hands behind his back as he fell into the rear position.

“He doesn’t seem at all like the person who’d do such a thing,” piped the youngest of the three elves. “Not that I don’t believe you.”

Zevran looked upon the young warrior, expression unreadable. “What makes you say that?”

“We were here, Ser, when the refugees were flooding in. As I said earlier, everyone who could heal was healing. That man, Anders, he was there already.”

“Oh, ho. Was he, now?”

“Everyone noticed him, he was impossible _not_ to notice, but nobody really minded. Nobody knew who he was, at first. I don’t know a lick about magic, but he was _incredible_. Like a human lantern, he was always glowing. You’d watch him put his hands on a person and their wounds would seal up.”

“Of course, our Senior Warden here must have kept his pace, surely?”

Velanna was unamused, and it had soaked into her tone, tinting it with negativity. “I never specialized in the field. There are dozens of disciplines as it is, I cannot possibly know them _all_.”

She had eventually collapsed of exhaustion, but it was not for lack of trying. Spirit healers were a minority of the mages as it was, and the majority of eligible mages had sought to attend the Conclave. Redcliffe was overwhelmed by the sudden demand for such magic, and even practitioners of traditional medicine were too few.

_I’m sorry, I can’t..._

_The man was hanging on by a thread, his breath obscured by the cacophany of yelling and crying all around. His face was badly bruised, purple, as were his legs, misshapen and forming multiple angles, rather than lying straight. There was internal damage she knew, but she knew not the extent of it._

_She opened her mind to the Fade to channel its arcane energies, perhaps a helpful spirit, but the magic petered out. She grit her teeth and then attempted to re-establish contact once more, and heard a voice whispering promises in her ear, which she ignored. The flesh would not knit, would not repair itself; indeed, she could scarcely ease the man’s suffering, and all her poultices had been used on other victims of the Conclave._

_But you must! Please, my lady, you have to! Please, he’s my brother!_

_And then He came over them, with the force of a hurricane, veins lit like lyrium under his eyes, wild and unfettered. His voice shook with a deep, rumbling timber._

_“Move aside.”_

_His body flashed magnificently as soon as he touched the man, as though channeling the spirit of the Maker, or something equally powerful. Visceral cracking sounded through the air like whipshots as the bones fused forcibly together, as though being molded by an invisible hand. And then the man was whole, and Velanna could scarcely believe it._

_He reached a hand out to her, and at first she had not recognized him._

_“You can do it, Velanna. Just a little longer. Help me.”_

_And as he helped her to her feet, he had given her a draught of lyrium, then charged off to the front lines, like a man possessed._

* * *

 

The City Guard welcomed him back with open arms, and even Captain Kinney seemed relieved not to have to shoulder the burden alone. He had spent an hour updating Alistair of the current situation and retelling the tale of how Teagan had been forced out, how it had devolved into a chilling conversation of thinly veiled threats between the two men. This, followed by a few overt displays of destruction magic, was sufficient cause for the Arl to leave. Had violence erupted, the whole town might be at stake.

The majority of Redcliffe's soldiers had left with the Arl, ostensibly for Denerim. A skeleton crew was left behind, and at first the Magister had wished to eject the remaining guardsmen. However, they had negotiated a shaky truce with a second Tevinter, one Felix Gereon, promising simply to see to the peace of the town.

In effect they had simply agreed to abide by the new de facto ruler of Redcliffe, a fact which made Alistair ill to think about. He knew Teagan wanted to protect his town and uphold his pledge to Queen Anora, but _this_? This was an occupation, a highly unwelcome one. He was no brilliant tactician, no Commander of Legions. But if a member of the Magisterium gained a foothold in Redcliffe, it opened the door to further foreign incursions into Ferelden.

Since the nation was in a state of turmoil and still recovering from the Blight, this was worrying. Not that Alistair worried about the _Tevinter Imperium_ deciding to expand into Ferelden, exactly.

The Magister Gereon Alexius had not only deposed Arl Teagan, he had also taken residence in Redcliffe Castle. The vandalism done to the Castle's main bridge was a reminder not only of the Magister's influence, but also of the sheer power of magic.

 _An unwelcome reminder at that_ , thought Alistair as he passed it by. The city's denizens had always been unsettled by magic ever since Connor's possession a decade ago.

Alistair could hardly sleep for all the troubles facing the town, and he felt the need to do something about it, misplaced though the desire was. But _what_? What could he do but wait for Teagan's return and in the meantime simply keep the peace? He knew what he _wanted_ to do, which consisted largely of grabbing the Magister by the collar of his robes and carting him off to the jail.

But Alistair also liked having full use of his hands, and legs, and general bodily functions, any of which could be dissolved, or combusted, or frozen.

 _Then_ he heard of another curious factoid. Templars had originally lain siege to the city, mere days after the Conclave, demanding blood--because, _apparently_ , there had been a fugitive hiding among the apostates. The mages had denied having knowledge that the man was with them, but once his presence was made public, several vocal supporters had threatened to riot and plunge the city into chaos. Arl Teagan had ultimately refused to turn the apostate over, in spite of his crimes, though the Templars insisted there was a connection between him and the Breach.

The lingering Templar presence spurred the temporary alliance with Tevinter--even the Templar Order knew they were playing with fire. They had not wholly withdrawn but left the city unbothered.

The fugitive had been put under house arrest, but Alistair found it unconscionable that anyone would leave such a dangerous individual to his own devices. Not to mention allowed to operate with the general public. If _anyone_ could visit, what of other criminals or radicals?

He climbed the stairs with purpose, in full captain's armor, bearing a shield with the insignia of Redcliffe. Right now, he was the sole man in charge of the city's welfare, and he would _not_ fail Teagan. He could not afford to, not when his uncle had given him a second chance.

The guards at their post composed themselves into the stiffest, most disciplined posture they knew how when they saw Alistair heaving himself up the incline. The Captain largely ignored them as he pressed into the clinic without invitation--and what he saw was nothing short of condemning.

Warden Commander Stonecipher and her Second-in-Command, Nathaniel Howe, were _taking tea_ with Kirkwall's most wanted. Evidently the Grey Wardens had nothing else more pressing to contend with.

Their heads turned sharply as he barged in, coming to a halt before their crate-cum-coffee table.

"Has something happened?" Anders was especially concerned, though he naively jumped to thoughts of anarchy among the mages, or some bloody feud.

"Shut up." Alistair jabbed at finger at him. "I _know_ who you are."

"Oh, I see. And we were getting along so well!" The mage sighed. "Seems to be a common occurrence these days."

"I _knew_ I remembered you from somewhere, and last night it finally hit me. Before I left here, I was called out to a public disturbance at the _Gull and Lantern_. You-- _you_ were falling down drunk and handing out pamphlets. Or trying to. Yelling after people about mage rights."

"We all have our off days, Captain." Anders did not break his aura of nonchalance. The attitude seemed to get under Alistair's skin.

"According to your incident report, you gave your name as _Karl_. Which, as it turns out, was completely false. No--turns out, you’re _Anders_.”

The mage smirks. “And so if someone tells you I’m Anders, you automatically believe them?”

“Bit of advice?” Alistair was eyeing him with distrust. “Don’t assume I haven’t done my homework. I know all about you. As do our Warden friends here.”

“All right,” acquiesced the mage, exposing his palms. “But do you really blame me for using an alias? The name _Anders_ lends itself to doors being kicked in, you know.”

“I can’t imagine why. So--yes. This man is, in fact, _Anders_.”

Alistair's attention flickered briefly to the Warden-Commander, then to Nathaniel. He appeared expectant, but neither of them seemed particularly surprised by the revelation. "Maker's _breath_ , don't tell me you already knew? _Millagre_?"

He stared at her imploringly. Millagre had not _seemed_ familiar with the apostate, but she had been rather trusting, considering it was Zevran's health. 

She paused, tapping her fingers along the edge of her chair. "We knew, yes. I did not think it was important."

"Not important? Oh, really?"

When Alistair stepped forward in her general direction, Nathaniel calmly intercepted him. The Captain did not seem overwhelmed with rage and did not appear to actively threaten Millagre in any way, but as she was very presently beleaguered by other matters, one of which had only recently been made aware to him, Nathaniel was cautious.

"Calm yourself, Alistair," he warned. "We can discuss this matter rationally."

"Rationally? I am perfectly rational. I think you are missing the point, which _is_ that we also could have discussed rationally _yesterday_."

The dark-haired archer tightened his lip, refusing to budge. "Is this actually about Anders?" He lowered his voice. "Or about someone else?"

"Exactly what are you insinuating? Don't be ridiculous." Alistair stepped away from Nathaniel, circling the seating area like a wolf. The latter observed the guard captain carefully. "I came here because I want some answers. For one, what is someone like you doing here in Redcliffe?"

The mage's expression darkened somewhat. "Someone like me? What, a _mage_?"

"I don't care that you're a mage. The Grand Enchanter? Nothing against her. Connor? He's practically my cousin. Sort of. But you're not just _any_ mage, you're practically a terrorist."

All noise died in the room with the accusation, and a subtle tension built, as that before a coming storm. Anders stood, taking his staff in hand. He brushed past Nathaniel, the staff edge scraping dully along the wood floor, which groaned at his steps. When he stood face-to-face with Alistair, Anders was the less intimidating figure, smaller and thinner. The light beard which had grown in imparted a sense of _wildness_ , though to Millagre, he merely seemed older, befitting the wizened mage stereotype. This was odd, as Anders was still relatively young.

But his experiences had likely aged his soul.

“It’s soothing, isn’t it? Trying to fit it all into your little narrative. Believing that all I am, ever was, is a dangerous radical. Unable to see that Kirkwall--no, nearly all Thedas, was a powder keg _years_ in the making. All it took was a spark to come undone.”

Alistair’s hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. The man across from him did not appear threatened even if he should have been. If their conversation came to blows, it was likely that the battle would end in mutual death. Alistair would not be able to block a spell at that range, nor would Anders a blade.

The mage carefully lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. “ _Boom_.”

Nothing happened. The former Templar narrowed his eyes as Anders stepped away, pacing lightly about the room. “You were outside recently--the wounds I tended suggest so. What did you see?”

 _What didn’t we see,_ wondered Alistair. 

“When the Conclave was destroyed, many stragglers fled to Redcliffe,” Anders continued. “Those who weren’t obliterated first, that is. What did **I** see but Templars, refusing my brothers and sisters haven here? Killing apostates because, _surely_ , one of them must have been behind the attack? Wantonly seeking revenge on the innocent? Cutting down _children_?”

Alistair spoke through clenched teeth. “You _are_ forgetting the part where the mages are very nearly killing everyone they see.”

“As if that _excuses_ them!" The apostate pivoted sharply on his heel. "That's Templar logic for you. What one mage does, all are now guilty for."

The Captain shook his head in exasperation. “This is getting us nowhere. You haven’t answered my original question, and you know what, I don’t care. I don’t even care what the Grey Wardens want with you--though I advise them to _move along_."

Millagre was on the receiving end of his professional glower, though she was unaware of the immediate cause. It was strange with Alistair, who was hot one moment and cold the next. Such was the way it had been from the Frostbacks. She had her guesses, of course. But for now she would take him at his word, for Alistair _had_ just professed his suspicion in regards to the mage.

Moved by peer pressure, part by the need to emphasize her point, she bounced up from the chair now, tramping up to Anders’ side, her chest stuck out and her hands in fists perched on her hip. Millagre was still in a state of casual disarray, her braids askew and her tunic rumpled from having slept in it. Peering at her thus gave Alistair a moment of deja vu. 

“We will move along when we are ready to move along,” she announced. “Anders has been attempting to relay information to us which we might find helpful, and he would have been able to do so if we had not been interrupted.”

“What could this man possibly have that you would find helpful?”

“To name one? Further elaboration on the effects of the Taint, from his own experience.”

“Why would--” Alistair had to stop himself, opening and closing his fingers. “And why does he even know about the _Taint_?”

And as soon as the questions entered his mind--what would the Grey Wardens want from such an apostate--Alistair allowed himself to feel the alluring pull of the Calling, which he had done his best to repress. He could feel the prickle in his mind, the sensation of darkspawn, but slightly different, which always meant _Wardens_.

Millagre and Nathaniel had been too close together to feel distinct from one another before, and even though he could feel her just before him, Alistair could sense the presence of another distinct Warden, the familiarity of the taint.

That Warden was staring him in the face.

“Andraste help us all,” Alistair breathed, eyes wide. “I can’t believe I didn’t sense it before. That’s--when did **you** join the Wardens? You--please tell me you didn’t, Mills.”

"You are not the only man who left the Taint Brigade all those years ago.” Anders smiled smugly. “I thought you’d sense it, but apparently not.”

Alistair looked betrayed, and his lip threatened to tremble.

“Yes, I’ve heard about you, too,” the mage rattled on, taking the upper hand. “Secondhand mostly. But someone had to sit and listen to all the stories about how the Commander’s Grey Warden boyfriend stood her up at the Landsmeet.”

Alistair felt defensive. “That is not how it went _at all_.”

“Everyone here needs to calm down.” The Warden-Constable was speaking aloud, but calmly, as still and tranquil as a rare moment on the Waking Sea. “Anders, back away.”

“But I’m not even--”

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes, and with the peculiar power usually inherent in mothers, convinced the mage to step away.

“Commander--stand down. All of you--separate.”

This helped slightly, though Millagre refused to budge simply for the principle of the matter. So the Warden-Constable had to coax her into doing so, putting hands on her shoulders and trying to guide her away, back to sit. She refused to do this, of course, and resisted Nathaniel’s peacemaking attempts.

“Captain.” The Warden-archer kept a safe, non-provocational distance between them. “It was a long trip, you will have to excuse us. You came here for a purpose, so say your piece.”

Alistair swallowed, then mentally composed himself, summoning all the focus from his Templar training long ago. “Yes, thank you, Warden-Constable.” Nathaniel bowed his head lightly in respect. “The apostate, Anders. I will respect Teagan’s earlier decision to allow you live here, however--I cannot let this clinic operate without more oversight.”

“More ovesight? You have guards watching my every move already.”

“Guards who are not trained Templars,” he went on. “Which would not work anyway, given how you feel about them.

“I’m not wholly convinced you’re uninvolved with the events at the Conclave. I’ve heard some people saying that the woman responsible is currently being held in the Inquisition. Make of that what you will. But that’s not the work of a single person. So we need to properly vet everyone who comes to you for aid, whoever it is and for whatever purpose.”

“People are already leery enough when coming here, Captain.” The mage carefully eased himself into his earlier chair. “You are going to place more obstacles in their way of seeking treatment? You are going to have soldiers prying into everyone’s business and asking about women about their issues?”

“I haven’t thought it all through yet--”

“Apparently not.” The mage’s eyes were watching him chillingly.

“I will work out the details,” Alistair insisted. “As for the Grey Wardens, I must insist that you not stay here at the clinic. In fact, I will not allow you to. So you will need to gather your things and move to another location in Redcliffe.”

“You aren’t serious, are you?” Millagre stared at him, unconvinced.

“I am very serious. If you do not comply with that, I will have my men remove you not just from the clinic, but from Redcliffe itself.”

His words lingered in their minds long after they’d cleared the air.

“And don’t even think about it,” Alistair added sharply.

“What?”

“Conscription. I know you have that right, _technically_ , but I cannot allow you to remove him. I doubt Teagan will disagree with that.”

Millagre snorted. “Even if I were planning to re-conscript the man here, it’s not your business and you would be in violation of the old treaties.”

“I’m not exactly all for jumping aboard the Warden train again either,” mused the mage, who was picking at his cuticles. “But hey, no-one asked me.”

“Millagre, for Andraste’s sake. The Wardens are heroes now, and everyone admires them--and now after the Blight, after everything _we_ did, after everything Duncan did to rebuild us here in Ferelden--you want to start consorting with criminals? This is like Teyrn Loghain all over again, but _worse_.”

“I am still here,” muttered Anders.

Alistair heaved a sigh as he gazed down upon the dwarf. “Have some respect for your Order, for their _sacrifices_.”

The Warden-Commander bristled at the condescension. “How dare you talk to me as though you know anything about our _Order_. How dare you speak to _me_ about sacrifice. You have not sacrificed a day in your life, you pampered Chantry boy.”

Nathaniel Howe sighed.

There came a knock on the door, and Alistair turned to find Zevran Arainai rapping his knuckles on the wood. “I can’t help but notice I am interrupting,” said the assassin, “but please, do not hold back simply because I am here.”

Alistair refrained from answering the petty accusation, then turned to the assassin. “We’re finished,” he said. “The Grey Wardens have an hour to remove themselves from this area. Make sure your wife _understands_.”

Velanna stepped aside as the Captain retreated, murmuring something about rude shems. She crossed the threshold, trailed by the three junior Wardens as though they were her ducklings, and the clinic began to feel quite full. She eyed Anders with a hint of wariness, as though her hesitation stemmed from far more than just his being a fugitive. "Commander."

"Velanna!" Millagre grinned, amicably clapping the woman on the shoulder. The elf did not reciprocate, and stiffened slightly. "Glad to see everyone made it through the Hinterlands. Not that I doubted any of my Wardens, of course." She could feel the bubbling, frothing anger cool and become tepid. "Calaros, how's the new sword working?" _  
_

"Haven't had to use it but once," said the elf meekly, suddenly feeling on the spot. "Good steel."

"Good, yes. Excellent."

The Warden-Commander had begun to pace as she took stock of her men, nodding in acknowledgement to Jago and Dalica, and at last she arrived at Zevran. The assassin made no movement to greet her or even embrace her at that time. In fact, he broke eye contact. 

"Who was that, Commander?" asked Velanna suddenly. "That wasn't the same Captain I saw earlier."

"That straggler I mentioned?" Zevran folded his arms, leaning coolly against the door left ajar. "That was him. It...is a long story. One that might take more than an hour to tell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that everyone is thoroughly angry with each other and most of the secrets are out, there should be some fun lawbreaking in the next chapter. I have been sympathetic to Anders so far, but watch the pendulum swing. I'm trying to strike a balance with Alistair as well. I do picture their dynamic being...tumultuous, even at the best of times, so I hope to give some credibility to both of them.


	15. The Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grey Wardens continue their fact-finding in Redcliffe, Alistair is somewhat paranoid, and Anders makes a proposal.

_We came across an intelligent darkspawn in the Vimmark Mountains_.

The apostate had told his version of the story from many years past. It had been the story Carver related upon his transfer from the Wardens in Ansberg, though--and quite understandably--the latter had left out salient details. Anders, on the other hand, did not shy away from the fact that the Darkspawn call had momentarily enthralled him. Even the Architect had not commanded such an ability.

The tale made for an intriguing portrait of the Champion of Kirkwall as well, whose movements since the Chantry explosion in 9:37 were largely unknown. Then Anders reluctantly admitted that the whole affair still made Hawke uneasy. The healer was quick to add, however, that he had not seen Hawke in quite some time.

Both the Warden-Commander and Warden-Constable had been able to see beyond the statement when Anders said it. The Champion of Kirkwall had continued his association with what many now considered a dangerous fugitive, but if he had been in Redcliffe, then the Wardens would likely have heard about him. 

That Anders had entrusted them both with this tidbit spoke volumes. Both Wardens had known the man for less than a year, but as tends to happen with those who fight together, a close-knit bond had developed among them. This bond had merely faded with the passage of time, not disappeared entirely.

As she strolled the streets of Redcliffe alongside Velanna, her mind wandered to the past, back to when she had been Warden-Commander no more than six months, even before Zevran had returned.

There had been just seven of them--seven Grey Wardens, most of them newly inducted into the Order, seven standing against two separate armies of Darkspawn, each headed by an awakened leader. The odds had seemed as against her as the day she woke up in Flemeth's Hut to discover that only two Grey Wardens remained in all of Ferelden--and that there was a Blight encroaching upon the land.

Anders had been her first conscript as Warden-Commander, though not her first overall--Loghain held that honor. She wondered what it would be like had he stayed and never fled from the Chapter.

She tried to imagine _Senior Warden Anders,_ clean-shaven and hair tied back, feeding the local cats, preparing the blood for the Joining and standing solemnly alongside her and the other Senior Wardens as they welcome a new generation of Wardens.

She also tried to imagine _Warden-Constable Anders_ , a thought which made her feel guilty as Nathaniel had proven himself on every assignment he'd be tasked with. So she then placed him working with Nathaniel, who in this hypothetical reality was the Warden-Commander, now Arl of Amaranthine as he was once destined to be. She could easily picture Howe wearing his gleaming griffon-wing helmet. And as for her? Well, perhaps she would be in Montsimmard with Loghain, ever a thorn in Commander Clarel's side as they both made fun of the Orlesians.

There was one detail the mage had skirted around and never addressed, Millagre noticed. The one detail Carver had not left out. Perhaps Nathaniel had noticed it, too--or its absence, rather.  

* * *

The general store was low on sundries as it struggled to keep up with the demand. The in-fighting had interrupted plantings and harvests all across Thedas, and the influx of refugees meant that most people were getting by on less. The food scarcity was not endemic in all of Ferelden yet, at least not to the same degree as it was here. She could only imagine the situation in Orlais.

"We're fresh out of butter," the provisioner said, leaning over the counter. "Even if the gates were open, the farms around here are cut off."

"I understand. Thank you for your assistance."

The Warden-Commander used her stipend to purchase an allotment of potatoes, dried peas, and flour, suitable for seven Wardens for a few days. The goods were more expensive than she anticipated, reminding her of her youth in Dust Town. As bad as the situation was here, Orzammar had been far worse. She had once been so famished she'd resorted to eating dirt. 

 _This is luxury in comparison_ , she reminded herself. _We can still eat_.

"Stews and firecakes," Millagre said with a tiny sigh. "Not exciting, but enough for now.  As soon as take to the road, some hunting will be in order."

"You will excuse me if I don't participate." Velanna stood over her patiently as the Warden-Commander secured the provisions within a large burlap sack.

"Should not be a problem. As long as I'm not stuck going solo."

The mage watched as Millagre hoisted the oversized sack upon her back in one fell motion. Velanna was somewhat impressed by the feat even though the goods were not as heavy as they appeared. How dwarves managed to command the strength they did with such short legs was beyond her.

Or perhaps she simply knew some exceptional ones.

"Do you need help with that, Commander?" The elf's offer was half-hearted, out of courtesy. She was no weakling, but she did not wish to risk the possibility of appearing as such.   

"No, I have these."

Both Wardens schlepped off in direction of their camp, passing a group of young mages, huddled together and conspiring. She caught a few words, 'Magister' being one of them. They hushed as Millagre and Velanna passed by, as though quite intrigued by the presence of the Grey Wardens. Two of them had short matching ponytails.

"So, you mentioned a report earlier. What have you learned?"

"I have learned much. But most of it concerns politics or news about the Breach, not the mission."

"Is that the official name now? The Breach?"

"As official as it can be. The Breach, sometimes the Rift. The stories are frightening. If they are true, there is a permanent hole between this world and the Beyond."

Velanna found a small bench beneath a barren shade tree, then invited the Commander to sit. Millagre did so, dropping the sack to the ground. Curiously she tilted her head.

"You seem troubled."

"I don't see how you can be so calm about things. Perhaps you don't understand how dire this situation is. These squabbles over mage freedoms are so very petty in comparison to a direct, open link to the Fade. They _say_ the Breach is no longer expanding, they _say_ it is contained. The Inquisition has assured everyone they are 'working on it,' but what does that mean?"

The dwarf woman hopped up beside her fellow comrade-in-arms, lightly swinging her feet. "I hope they mean exactly what they say. I don't know if it is related, but demons were appearing in the Frostbacks as we returned from Orzammar."

There was a somber nod from the elf. She collapsed her shoulders into the stone retaining wall behind them, clasping her hands in her lap. Velanna looked defeated, and they had only just begun.

"The cracks could spread, and spread, until they encompass the whole world," she muttered. "Your  heart is in the right place, Commander, but we should be in Haven. Fighting. As should all these people here."

Neither spoke immediately thereafter, the air filled with the ambient hustle and bustle of civilization. Yet somewhere beyond the mountains, there was a colossal hole in the sky, and they were here, in the safety of the City. Perhaps it was _out of sight, out of mind_. If the Warden-Commander had been able to see it with her own eyes, would it change her priorities to match Velanna's? The Dalish woman could very well be correct.

"And if another Blight comes? What then?" Millagre leaned in, her voice softened, as reassuring as she could make it.

Velanna had no answer for that question, but neither did Millagre. If the songs and the whispers they were both hearing were indications of a new Blight, one evolved from the previous versions, they would need every Warden in Thedas. The Architect and Corypheus were terrible portents; what if there were more such Darkspawn out there?

The Warden-Commander distantly hoped it had nothing at all to due with the bargain she'd made a decade prior. Ah, the vagaries of youth.

But no-one needed to know about any of that. Just her, and Loghain.

"You may be right," the dwarf woman conceded. "But we have problems of our own right now. We need to figure out what is causing the Calling, and what to do about it. If possible, we need to investigate a cure for the Taint."

Velanna nodded slowly. "I just hope you're right about this. You will be encouraged to know there is one person who managed to cure themselves of the Blight."

"Who?"

"She's here in town, in fact. Grand Enchanter Fiona--she used to be a Grey Warden."

All of a sudden the Warden-Commander seemed to fill with life. Her chin perked up, her eyes went wide and glistened like polished amber, and her cheeks dimpled with a smile.

"The Grand Enchanter is _that_ Fiona?" Millagre echoed. "I can't believe it. I'd read the Report in Weisshaupt years ago, but there was no real personal information about her. Did you talk to her?"

"I did." Velanna huffed and blew up a stray lock of her hair. "She entertained my questions at first. Glossed over a campaign in the Deep Roads, this--this Orlesian enchanter who used the magic of a Darkspawn emissary to--to speed the corruption within Grey Wardens."

 _The power to speed corruption within the Grey Wardens_. Millagre felt a chill run through her body, and goosepimples prickle beneath the sleeves of her tunic.

"Did you mention our predicament to her?"

"No," she said, admitting her reluctance. "The woman was sincere enough and knew about the Joining, among other topics. But without the ability to make absolutely certain, I...did not wish to disclose that."

"Understandable. So she was free of the Taint?"

"I could not feel anything." She bent her chin to her chest, exhaling softly. "It was as though the Blight had never touched her. She said she--came to be with the Order in 9:09."

The unspoken thought was not lost on her. Thirty years was a generous estimate for a Warden's lifespan after the Joining. According to Alistair, Duncan had begun to hear his Calling after only twenty. The Grand Enchanter was thus completely unmarred and would likely live on to be an old, wrinkled woman.

Assuming the mages were able to solve their predicament, that is.

"Tell me _everything_ this Fiona told you."

* * *

When it was founded, the Gull and Lantern's owner had not anticipated that it would one day host several important meetings of historical significance. The mages had held several forums there, though the audience had been limited due to the building's size. The Magister had discussed terms with the Grand Enchanter under its roof, and it would also become the place in which Fiona finally agreed to sign away the rights of the Free Mages. The Inquisition would later meet with the Grand Enchanter in that very room. 

No-one would consider erecting a plaque for some time, however.

A slightly less well-known fact would be this: the Gull and Lantern was the very place that Grand Enchanter Fiona made the acquaintance of the Hero of Ferelden.

The late afternoon sun was casting long shadows over parts of the town, but an impressive glare had lain siege to the establishment's west-facing windows. The shutters had therefore been drawn, leaving the main hall of the tavern a dark, cloistered room. Not everyone noticed the Commander of the Grey when she entered alone, but she piqued the interest of a few once she asked for the Grand Enchanter's whereabouts. She was directed to the back, formerly a joint kitchen and store room.

When Captain Alistair entered later, he was informed that the Grand Enchanter was meeting with the Commander of the Grey and hesitated.

 _How dare you speak to_ me _about sacrifice. You have not sacrificed a day in your life, you pampered Chantry boy!_

Millagre was wrong, of course, though there was no use thinking about such things. Still, Alistair was loath to confront her after earlier, should she be of a mind to continue arguing with him. But that begged the question: what did she want with the Grand Enchanter? Alistair made his way quietly down the hallway to see the door ajar, and he could hear their voices from beyond.

"...The key to it might be in your blood."

"My blood?" Alistair quirked an eyebrow, wondering if he had misheard. "You are asking me for a sample?"

"If you're of a mind."

Silence then, as Fiona pondered the request. "Most of us would hesitate to grant that power to someone they do not know. And I do not know you, Commander."

The Captain could scarcely believe what he had heard. What could a Grey Warden possibly want or even need with the Grand Enchanter's _blood_?

But a mage could very well want it, couldn't they?

"Because of blood magic?" came the dwarf woman's voice. "It is no secret that the Wardens make use of blood magic, as you well know. I won't lie about that. But we would use it for the purpose I expressed earlier: to find a cure for the Blight."

Alistair tensed at the mention of blood magic. The Templars had trained him well. He had heard theories about what could be done by maleficarum if they possessed the blood of others, including and not limited to mind control. A powerful blood mage could influence world leaders and powerful figureheads if they were motivated to do so, and all it would take was a sample of blood.

He _knew_ Millagre well enough, however. Aside from that one incident when she had been unnaturally trusting of the man who poisoned Arl Eamon, the Hero of Ferelden would never purposely be in league with a maleficar.

Not by choice.

But what if Millagre had not had a choice in the matter? What if she were under someone's thrall?

There was a mage whom the Warden-Commander had recently spoken to. It was the same mage who had very recently come into contact with _her_ blood, as Alistair had seen all along her forearms. He had placed his hands upon her and healed all the scars and abrasions, then wiped the remaining coagulations off her skin.  

Alistair replayed the events in his mind, how very casually the events had happened, and the implication was terrifying.

 _Could Anders be a maleficar_?

 _Sweet Andraste,_ Alistair thought to himself. _That's ridiculous. I'm being...ridiculous_. He very much hoped he was being ridiculous, but some part of him realized the seriousness of the situation if it were true. The Captain within him bade him enter the room then, causing both women to look up with a start.

"Good evening, ladies. I hope I wasn't interrupting the both of you."

Fiona gasped lightly. " _Captain_."

"Grand Enchanter." Alistair smiled guardedly in greeting, wondering why she looked so stupefied. "It is good to see you again."

"Likewise. I had heard one of the Arl's men had returned, but I had no idea it was you."

"Yes, it's me. I'm here. Whatever rumor you might have heard, it’s not true." Alistair clapped and rubbed his hands together. "So! You and the Commander have already become good friends, I see."

Millagre seemed vaguely annoyed, an arm hanging over the back of her chair. "Alistair. What brings you to us this evening?"

“I wanted to speak about the ceremony tomorrow.”

Fiona avoided his gaze, hands clasped upon the table. "If you have come here to change my mind, I'm afraid it is too late for that."

Alistair frowned--the situation was further along than he'd thought. "You mean you have agreed to it already?"

"More or less. The Magister has waited long enough, and he has been very patient with us. It was his right to call for this deadline. Tomorrow is...only a formality. Then it becomes official."

The Captain swallowed, and glanced aside to see what Millagre might have thought about the matter. Her brows were knitted but her expression otherwise inscrutable. The room was dimly lit, and cast shadows over the dwarven rogue's face.

"Are you sure you don't want to reconsider this?" Alistair pressed. "Promising all the Free Mages to Tevinter... That's not something you can just _undo_."

The Captain's voice was diplomatic and careful, as though he were highly cognizant that he were walking a mine field. Or a field marked with paralysis glyphs. 

"We have no choice. We are beaten, and the chance for peace is past." Fiona rubbed her temples, weary now. "The Templar Order would have seen to it that we were all massacred. Without the Magister's help, we would be fewer than we are now."

"You say the Magister was your only chance, but Teagan would have supported you," said Millagre, arching a long eyebrow. "I can vouch for his honor. The moment you sign on with this Magister, you are also supporting what he did to the Arl of Redcliffe and guilty by association."

"You too, Commander?" The Grand Enchanter bowed her head slightly, resting her eyes. "And here I thought the Grey Wardens did not involve themselves in politics. I do not wish to argue, so please leave. The both of you."

The dwarf Warden blinked, though she was not surprised. Fiona had entertained a few more questions which expanded on Velanna's from earlier, but she had been unwilling to give the details of the testing she had undergone in Weisshaupt. And whatever made her immune to the Taint, whatever was likely in her blood, would remain a mystery for now. Perhaps they had drawn her blood in Weisshaupt thirty years ago for that very reason.

Perhaps they had still kept a sample of it somewhere. In Weisshaupt.

 _I could have Carver ask around_ , thought Millagre briefly, though that might draw the ire of the First Warden. Besides, effective correspondence to the Anderfels would take longer than they had.

She felt Alistair trail her into the Gull and Lantern, then out into the last vestiges of the day's sunshine. He waited until then to speak.

"I heard you ask Fiona for her blood."

Millagre wheeled about, came face-to-face with his chest, then directed her gaze upward. It was as though ten years had caused her to forget how tall the man had been, caused her to forget how awkward it had been to kiss him without yanking him down to her level first. The memories were sudden and obtrusive, and she dwelled on them a second longer than intended, feeling a light flutter in her core.

"Do you make a habit of listening in on people?"

"Do **you** make a habit of blood magic?" Alistair crossed his arms, his cheeks puckered as though he were sucking on a sour lemon.

"She used to be a Grey Warden, Al." She jabbed her finger back at the Tavern's closed door. "She _is_ the cure. The answer is in her somewhere."

"Fiona was a Grey Warden?" Alistair started to laugh, then stopped. "Wait, _really_?"

The Warden-Commander stared back at him, arms folded.

"That's...well, that..." _Maybe that's a little different._ But the blond would not dare admit that to her. He sighed and removed his helmet to scratch roughly at his hair. "At least you were polite about the asking, I suppose."

"I'd appreciate it if you did not mention this to anyone. Grey Warden business, you understand. Now... If that's all, I'm returning to camp."

"Wait." He reached out to her, and she stopped at his call, turning back to look at him. "Millagre, I'm worried about you."

"You're _what_?"

"This...Calling." He stepped closer to the petite woman, clanking audibly, just so that he could lower his voice. "No-one's cured Blight sickness before. Maker knows, many have _tried_. That kind of pressure... It leads people to do desperate, crazy things. So...take care not to do anything I wouldn't."

"Your concern is adorable, Al. But don't worry about me."

The Warden-Commander reached up and patted his cheek before she retreated. Perhaps he should have been insulted by the cavalier attitude, but all Alistair could think of were the ghostly fingers on his cheek 

* * *

 He knocked against the tent flap, then called out her name. She answered, and somewhat demurely. Zevran untied the "door," such as it was, then crawled inside.

The inside of the tent smelled faintly of clean earth and dandelions, and a lantern had been tucked securely in the corner. Two bedrolls had been lain out neatly in anticipation of company. Her back was to him, and she was clad in a simple muslin shirt while her tunic and breeches had been hung to dry. It was one size too large, for it hung off the shoulder and pooled about her thighs. It had always proven difficult to find basic clothing cut for dwarven women, so Millagre simply made do.

She had washed her hair painstakingly in a basin and had removed all her individual braids. Now she was running a horse-hair brush through her auburn hair, leaving it slick and shiny.

" _Amor_ ," he addressed her, then drew his finger ticklingly along the exposed skin of her neck and shoulder. "Now what would you do if an assassin crept up behind you, and you did not hear him coming?"

"A good question," she answered steadily. "I suppose I would be entirely at his mercy."

 _Ah, you little minx_. Zevran smirked to no-one in particular as he shifted forward against her, snaking his arms around her middle, grazing the undersides of her soft breasts. He pressed his nose into her hair, inhaling her scent. Millagre was a pragmatist at heart and so her soaps were either neutral or gentle, unobtrusive scents. But this also meant he could smell her skin, which in this case was quite fresh from the bath. He exhaled with an audible sigh, then continued to hold her.

Millagre had lowered the hairbrush, and after a short time of being held, ran her fingers along his forearm. The elf shifted slightly, then nestled his face in the crook of her neck. Zevran knew she enjoyed being held like this; after so many years, he could play the woman like a harp, pluck the strings in just the right order so as to create a desirous melody. It would be a lie to say he had not grown attached to these chaste forms of love, as even her closeness was a comfort most days.

Often it did not stay chaste. She would melt into him, sooner or later, both dissolving into a world of tactile sensation until they met Oblivion.

But such was not Zevran's mood at present, so he graced her neck with feathery kisses, innocent and affectionate. If she concentrated, she might feel the swipe of his eyelashes. Millagre extended an arm behind her, combing fingers through his yellow hair in a most encouraging fashion, sighing gently.  

"Amor..." Zevran whispered the word, then kissed her earlobe.

There were words yet to be said, though what those were he could not pin down. Maker preserve him, he could hardly untangle his own feelings on the matter. He did not want to dredge them up again, not when he had spent most of the day dwelling on the uncertainties of the future. He merely wanted to be by his Warden's side. He wanted time to stop passing, the world to stop moving--and for moments such as this to never end.

When she had mentioned her Calling, it was as though the Maker had wrenched a hand through his chest and gripped his heart with an icy claw. He had tried to stave off thinking about that moment, but ultimately Zevran knew it would have come to pass. It had not surprised him, not really, but that the Hero of Ferelden would be claimed so young was nothing short of a tragedy.

Her proclamation to fight her Calling had reinstilled some hope. But that morning's revelation had completely blindsided him.

"Does that mean you have forgiven me?" Millagre's back was to him, and she was unable to see his face. Her fingers rested on his cheek, just over where she knew his tattoo to be.

"What is there to forgive?" He sighed, closing his eyes. "I am humbled you even let me into your tent, my dear Warden."

"My door is always open, Zev. You know that."

And so it was. Ever since he had come into her life, his Warden had never turned him away. Well--with the exception of her tent when they had first met. He _was_ an assassin sent to kill her, after all. But once she had become certain that his motivation no longer lay in cutting her throat, they had quickly established a rapport and had been joined at the hip. **  
**

"Perhaps it shouldn't be," he said quietly. "I cannot help but notice that I seem to cause a great deal of trouble for you."

The Warden laid her arms over his, leaning into him. "You are perfect." Her tone was stubborn; she refused to entertain his current line of thought.

"Well, yes, I _like_ to think so. But is that true, really?"

At that question, she pulled away from his embrace to face him. They sit kneeling, watching one another, until Millagre clasped his hands in hers, threading their fingers together.

"Had I known of your condition, I would never have gone to Antiva. Knowing that you are, how shall we say, _as you are_..." He exhaled, squeezing her hands as he felt the spotlight of her gaze upon him. "People like us die young, my dear Warden."

"...Close call?"

"Very much so." He chuckled, as though trying to shake off the event, but the Warden found it disconcerting.

"But you came back."

 _I might not have returned from this_ , Zevran thought. "This is also true. Perhaps the Maker himself smiles upon me? Or I simply have a very lucky streak? Who knows."

He licked his lips--and continued speaking. 

"Sometimes I am aghast at the futility of it all. House Arainai still hangs on by the barest of threads, by a mere technicality, and has no power. But the Crows is a rabbit's hole. The Guildmasters consort with one another regularly, inside and outside their own house, making deals for power and prestige. _The Game_ , as played in Antiva... And House Arainai did not operate within a vacuum. 

"I am satisfied by my progress, but is it enough? But at what point is my job complete? There are still many Crows, far too many for me to eradicate in my lifetime. There are still eight houses, and lesser houses beyond this. 

"And so it has occurred to me: Elminating all the Crows from Antiva, a noble goal indeed, would require..." He kept his expression hidden. "Establishing my own House. Perpetuating the Cycle."

"Zevran." Then he felt her hand squeeze his, perhaps just a bit too tightly. He glanced up at her, not realizing he had not been meeting her eyes. "Founding your own guild of assassins is... _very_ wrong."

He sighed. "My dear, I did not say that I would. But that is a very 'means to an end' approach, no? If the Crows were the Blight, and the Crows the Grey Wardens, then there would be no problems, yes?"

"With the exception of child slaves," she murmured, looking unhappy for the comparison. 

Zevran laughed slightly--so disarming, that laughter of his. "I do not condone slavery, this you know." He swept her hair behind her ear, for it had grown out just long enough for him to do so.  "Perhaps I would use ethically sourced assassins? Ones who decided to choose murder as their career path. That would make it better, no?"

"Marginally," she replied, though Millagre was shaking inside at the thought. "Zev, you know that I want to be as supportive as possible, that your freedom is not something I wish to strip from you."

"Freedom? Terrible indeed. Now clothing, we could negotiate." 

"I'm serious."

"As am I." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, his hand creeping down to her thigh, tracing the curvature of her muscles. Perhaps Zevran was merely attempting to shy away from the larger questions hiding beneath the surface.  Most of the time it worked.

"But if the baby survives--" His hand stopped its drawing, now merely resting on her leg. "--someone will need to be around for it."

"My dear Warden," he sighed. Zevran settled between her legs, and he stretched his body over hers, forced her back onto the bedroll, where he clasped her wrists above her head. It was suggestive, possessive even, and a highly vulnerable position for her to be in. He planted a kiss on her dwarven nose, then rose up again.

Much as he did that morning behind the clinic, he reached beneath her oversized shirt and brushed the linen aside. He had only felt it before, and now he wanted to see it. Then Zevran ran his palms over the the slight swell in her belly, trying to digest the reality before him. His mind went blank, his heart hastening until he saw her flushing again, lightly avoiding his gaze. She was very sensitive in this new area, more so than before. But was that a psychological or physical reaction? 

"I confess, this is new territory..."

"Even for you?"

"Hah. Yes, _even_ for me. If we are talking about the same thing." He began to unfasten the clasp on his cloak. When it fell from his shoulders, Millagre pulled it away from him and drew it about herself. Whether she was cold or merely self-conscious, he could not tell. He suspected both.

"That is not to say I have not seen my fair share of pregnant women," Zevran clarified. "The whores were unlucky from time to time. I was not the cause of their misfortunes, however."

Millagre nodded slowly, then sat up. "You never really answered me."

"Did you ask me a question?" The assassin hummed in amusement as he removed the bulk of his armor. "My desire has not changed, cariño. I wish to remain by your side."

And even though Zevran meant it with all his heart, the thought still terrified him on some level. He wanted to be strong for her, to keep all her fears at bay--but there were too many unknowns, too many variables. Had Natalia's warning been a presage of what was to come, or had it simply been meant to scare him? Either was possible, and Zevran had found no definite evidence of any plan to assassinate the Hero of Ferelden.

But there were other issues as well. Millagre likely intended to keep doing excursions into the field-- **this** he knew well, and they would be having that discussion in the future. But not tonight, no.

Perhaps the hardest fact to swallow was that even if everything was done _right_ , Zevran might still lose her, much as he lost his mother.

It had almost happened before.

* * *

 The mages were gathering in the square outside. A few had been waiting since dawn. Velanna, as much as she pretended to be uninterested in the Free Mages' struggle, had suggested that they stay for the event. None of the Wardens had had any qualms about that, so they walked to the square as well, only a short distance from camp. They chatted pleasantly with some of the townspeople and attendees, when Nathaniel remembered.

"Anders wanted to know about this," he said. "I don't think he's here."

The apostate was not among the gathering, and the Captain was likely keeping a close watch on his clinic. She did not wish to risk Alistair’s ire this morning, so the decision was made.

"All right, I need paper.”

“I have some,” offered Jago, one of the Junior Wardens. He produced a folded piece of parchment from his satchel before she even had to ask in addition to a pen.

“You are prepared, aren’t you?” She smiled. “Good man.”

She then scribbled a note using the provided materials. The fountain pen was exceedingly good quality, carved of fine wood, and she felt pressured to add some extra flourishes.

_Good morning._

_Just for your information: G.E. Fiona will be meeting with the Magister this morning in front of the mages. I think they’ve decided._

M.S.

This was sufficient. Millagre waded through the crowd and found a young boy and girl whom she thought seemed respectable enough, and she broke into an amiable smile.

“I am need of a courier,” she said. “It’s paying work. Four silvers.”

The two exchanged glances, the girl mouthing _It’s a Grey Warden_. The boy cleared his throat, taking initiative for his younger sister. “Four whole silvers? What’s the catch?”

The dwarf quirked a brow, grinning. “You catch on quick. Are you aware of the free clinic on the hill?”

“Yes, but Mum says we aren’t allowed to go there,” he replied slowly.

“That’s your prerogative, of course. Though if your mother isn’t around to see you, I can’t imagine you would get into trouble.”

The boy frowned, though he seemed to understand that four silvers might be worth the risk of his mother’s disapproval. “Go on, Warden Ser.”

“This message needs to be delivered to the healer inside--tall blond man-- _not_ one of the guards. So you will need to bluff your way inside. Just tell them something hurts. Your leg, or your hand. Don’t oversell it.”

The boy took the message in hand, then blanched as Millagre enclosed two silvers into his palm. The Warden-Commander felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering how much four silvers had seemed to her once. “Half up front. The rest when you get back.”

Once her messengers had hastened off to deliver the message, the Warden returned to join her fellows. Zevran had appeared from out of nowhere, much as a ghost, eating an apple and clearly the envy of their group for that very reason. He was making sure to crunch and savor it right next to Velanna.

“Corrupting the youth again?” Nathaniel had asked when Millagre returned to the fold. After a partial day of rest, his spirits had risen immensely. There was still the matter of the Calling, which at this point he had learned to suppress somewhat, and also the disturbing notion of Wardens being possessed by Darkspawn--as they learned from Anders-- _but_ he was feeling quite good otherwise.

“You kidding? I am an _excellent_ role model.” She scuffed her foot against the stone, then squinted against the eastern sun.

“There’s the Grand Enchanter,” Nathaniel remarked, stroking his goatee. “No sign of the Magister yet.”

“Really? Shit, there are too many people in the way.” She stood on her tiptoes, saw what might have possibly been Fiona’s hair, then frowned. “We need a better vantage point. Nate, I’ll need to climb on top of you.”

“I would make a poor ladder, Commander.” There was a twinkle in his deep blue eyes as he followed her around the edges of the congregation.

“Do you need to chew so loudly?” Velanna was glaring daggers at the elf beside her--Zevran, that is, and not Calaros, who was on the whole quite well-behaved.

“I am being too loud? My apologies. I am merely in awe of the Maker’s bounty, how the land grows such luscious fruits even ten years after the Blight. This apple tastes as though it were cradled in Andraste’s bosom and then blessed by several beautiful Chantry sisters.”

The woman groaned, though whether it was the imagery or the reaction to his visceral noises remained undetermined. “Maybe you can be appreciative somewhere else?”

The Grey Wardens found a niche on the edge of the crowd, closer to Fiona herself, but only a side view. Not that they were there to see a comedic act or a show. The Magister would likely just shake her hand and then give a short speech.

Gereon Alexius showed himself minutes later, dressed in the fashion de mode in Tevinter. He was an older gentleman, possibly on par with Loghain judging by the wrinkles, wearing a a spiked crimson hood above the trappings of his robes. In his right hand he carried an ornate crescent-moon staff, with a skull design superimposed over the base. He emanated a sense of power, and even Millagre could feel it, as though he charged the air as he passed.

A much younger mage trailed him, more handsome of face, his hair close-cropped. This was none other than the Magister’s son, Felix Alexius. Even though his pumpkin-orange robe carried matching embellishments, he seemed more unassuming and taciturn.

On the side of the crowd opposite the Grey Wardens stood Captain Alistair and his retinue of guardsmen. Additional men and women had been placed strategically throughout the area in anticipation of any riots. Millagre made mutual eye contact with him several times before she decided to stop checking.

The Magister turned to them and extended his arms. “This is a day to be proud of,” he began. “The day that marks your pledge of service to the Tevinter Imperium. Ten years from now, you will all become rightful citizens. But most important of all, you will be able to live and practice your arts freely without judgment and scorn. Ferelden and Orlais have abandoned you, but we of the Imperium welcome you, men and women of like blood.”

He looked knowingly to Fiona, and she walked forward. “My friends, now is the time to lay down your arms. The Magister had protected us, will continue to protect us, as we serve under him. We need fear no Templar intervention, and with time we will all become citizens of the Tevinter Imperium, a land which accepts us for who we are--

“ _No_!”

The Grand Enchanter paused in her address, and the crowd gasped. Millagre could see people stepping to one side as someone parted the crowd. Within seconds, Anders had hauled himself up onto the griffon statue in the square, which was no small irony, putting himself in view of all the spectators.

"So this is what we are now, is it? This is what we've become? Slaves to the Imperium? We broke away from our masters in the Chantry, but we're too scared to stand on our own--so now we willingly give ourselves over to new masters?”

Alistair was gesturing to two of his men and stepping out to capture Anders (a brave feat in and of itself), but the Magister merely appeared amused and waved him off.

“Might I ask who you are, Serah?”

“My name is Anders.”

At this proclamation, the mages immediately around him thinned, but there were several who did not seem threatened by his presence.

“Ah, yes. The lunatic who blew up the Chantry and started the whole mess,” said the Magister disinterestedly. “Which, as I’ve read, you claimed to do for the good of your fellow enchanters. Well done.”

“We are not here to discuss what I have, or have not, done. My crimes are my own, and they do not invalidate what I say.”

Anders pointed his staff at the Magister in emphasis, which was a provocation alone. Felix reflexively cast a barrier around them both, though his father appeared unmoved by the threat.

“Do not allow this alliance! ' _But the Tevinters understand us_ ,' you think. ' _They have our best interests at heart_ ,’ you say. No--They do not. Ask the elves how kind their Masters are, see how they treat those without power."

He stepped slightly higher, then turned about to meet the eyes of all the mages, waving his hand. “You are Free Mages, free men and women, able to think for yourselves! How many of our brothers and sisters died for that freedom, which you so carelessly throw away now? You should all be ashamed of yourselves!”

The Magister’s amusement was slowly dissipating, and Fiona worried that he might change his mind. He had been kind enough to dissuade the Templars from attacking Redcliffe so far, but how long would his good will last? The man had made clear that taking the Free Mages under his wing and sponsoring them was a considerable expense, and the alliance might not continue if Anders managed to divide them.

Even now, she could hear whispers of dissent, those who had never agreed with joining the Imperium in the first place.

So the Grand Enchanter stepped forward, cutting him off. "Anders, you _knock it off_ this instant."

“Fiona.” Anders acknowledged her with a cold smile. “One of our own, selling us into slavery. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“The Magister is _not_ our enemy. He is protecting us from the Templars. From a country which barely tolerates us! Moreover, he is protecting _you_.”

The Grand Enchanter was trying to reign in her temper, but it had started to flare up. She had never met the man until now, only heard, but the instant she heard of his antics in Kirkwall was the instant she had grown to dislike him. She had wanted freedom as he did, she had voted to dissolve the Circles--but eventually, one had to admit they were defeated.

This man was jeopardizing the welfare of her charges, and that could not stand.

“It was by the barest thread of mercy that the Arl did not throw you to the wolves!” she ranted on. “We had Templars on our doorstep for days--catching refugees-- _demanding_ that you be given to them. They would make you Tranquil--they would have done so already--had the Magister not stepped in.”

"Oh, sure,” he said, dripping with sarcasm. “I'm sure it was all for my sake that you were making this pact, then."

Then Anders turned again to address the crowd, brandishing his staff, standing beside the mighty stone griffon. "I beseech you, friends. Do not let a single mage seal your fates like this! You have elected Fiona as your representative, and she is an admirable person by rights--but in this, she is mistaken! She is but one voice! One voice speaking for many, and is now agreeing to give up this voice out of fear!"

There was some gentle murmuring until someone called out:

"I vote we elect Anders as the Grand Enchanter!"

It was a radical and abhorrent thought for several mages, particularly the conservative ones, and the crowd erupted into vehement disagreement. There were no doubt Libertarians who supported Kirkwall's freedom fighter, the man supported by the Champion, who allegedly slew the tyrannical Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard of the Tmplar Order.

“Wish I’d brought popcorn.” Zevran sighed tragically. “He excels at this rabble-rousing of his."

"This could be dangerous, Commander." Nathaniel Howe rested a hand on the shoulder-strap of his bow, observing the tumult. "An angry mob of mages... I don't think I've ever seen its like. If one person casts anything, Redcliffe could become an inferno."

"Teagan _would_ be upset if his village burnt down," she agreed. She felt a warm tickle grazing her skin and noted that Velanna was casting a barrier of her own, just in case the situation spun out of control.

One of the mages was apparently trying to wrangle Anders down from the statue, grasping rapaciously at the hem of his robes--while still others sought to keep him from doing so. The rebel apostate kicked the man's hand away and drew his knees up just out of reach.

Fiona signaled to her own sympathizers, and they let out of several telekinetic blasts of energy at strategic points. A blast of energy crashed against the Grey Wardens' barrier, effectively neutralized, but several pockets of mages had been bowled over. They were unharmed for the most part.

The Grand Enchanter drove her staff into the ground with a loud clop, drawing their attention. "I was elected to hold the responsibility of making difficult decisions for us all, and it is my responsibility to see to the well being of all mages--including **you** , Anders, though it seems you would rather bring us to ruin just to defend a principle."

"Freedom is not just a _principle_!"

Fiona forged on. "--If the men and women here decide it best to elect you to my position, then so be it. Do you want to hold a vote, then?"

"It is not my intention to steal your thunder, Grand Enchanter. I will lead if the Free Mages decide that I am a worthy candidate--but I am under no illusions that I am the ideal candidate."

There was audible disagreement among the spectators. But was the disagreement because they wished Anders to be elected, or disagreement that they had to entertain a vote for the rebel mage? The blond put a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat in a spectacular fashion, ignoring the general disaccord.

"On behalf of the Free Mages, I, Anders, under the laws and customs of the Tevinter Imperium, challenge you, Magister Gereon Alexius, to a duel of honor."

The Magister laughed scornfully, uproariously, as though the mage before him was but a child playing with toy soldiers. "A duel? What purpose is a duel going to serve? Do you wish to kill me, son, is that it?"

"If those are the terms you desire!" Anders replied, a demeanor of seriousness overtaking him. "I do not seek to kill you, Alexius. But my terms are this: that you abolish this foolish alliance and leave us in peace, and that you leave Ferelden and never return here."

Then the foreign mage appeared to be losing his calm, if only slightly. Had he not been under strict orders of his own to capture the freedom of these mages, the Magister might have left Redcliffe altogether. The assembly of mages consisted of those from many parts of Thedas, most notably Orlais, Ferelden, and the Free Marches--but none of them were staunch supporters of the Imperium, Ferelden almost obscene in its opposition.

"This is not the _Old Imperium_ you may have read about in your outdated libraries. Magical duels, please. Who does that anymore?" Magister Alexius scoffed, pacing lightly back and forth.

"He's a madman, Father."

"I know that!" said the Tevinter, sharply looking at his son.

"Magister, I will accept in your place if you so desire," said Fiona with a slight bow. "It would be my pleasure to put him in his place."

"And if you lose?" The Magister practically sneered at her. "A duel between you both would do nothing, it would just induce more in-fighting."

"I am the son of two commoners!" Anders continued on, his voice carrying all through the square. "My parents could not cast a spark. I specialized as a spirit healer. Do not tell me you are afraid to challenge me, Alexius! You are the product of generations of selective breeding, a mage who has studied magics his whole life. You are the apogee of power in Tevinter! What am I but a fly you could swat with a single spell?"

"I can see the cogs turning." The younger mage came within an arm's distance of the of his father. "If you decide to accept, I will be your second."

"Nonsense, Felix. You aren't in any condition for it."

"My friends! I believe in a mage's right to freedom, freedom from Tevinter _and_ the Circles. I do not require your gratitude, servitude, or ten years of your life! I will fight for you, I will fight the Templars, and I ask for nothing but your belief. Can you put your faith in a man who will not fight for you?"

"All right, all right!"

It was not the Magister who spoke then, but Captain Alistair, who strode out towards Fiona and the Magister. He directed a glare in Anders direction. "That is quite enough, Ser Mage. You have stated your case, and it is up for the Magister and the Grand Enchanter to decide."

"Captain," said Anders then, yet to move from his post. "Surely you cannot support the Tevinter occupation of Redcliffe?"

"I don't support it, no," he said unhappily. "We have nothing against Tevinter, but deposing the Arl is nothing short of treason." The Captain peered at the Magister challengingly as he said this, though redirected his attention back to the rebel apostate. "For that matter, you are also violating the terms of your imprisonment, Anders.

"And as I have the floor, I want to remind all of you that there will be no _shenanigans_ in Redcliffe itself. Damage to person or property is a criminal offense."

The Magister smiled crookedly. " _Thank you,_ Captain," he drawled.

Millagre's heart skipped a beat. She admired him for making such a statement, and perhaps that would drive some mages to reconsider the alliance--even if that meant siding, however temporary, with Anders. 

"Bold words from our good friend Alistair. Perhaps it would have been more effective to say, 'Please kill me, ser.'"

The Warden-Commander shot Zevran a glance. "He wouldn't. If the Magister attacks the City Guard, that will at least sway public sentiment against him."

"He has removed the Arl. What is one lowly guard to him?" Nathaniel placed a hand on the dwarf's shoulder, as though reading her mind. "In either scenario, I don't think it is our place to intervene."

The Tevinter Imperium possessed a fearsome reputation for producing formidable mages, and it was therefore assumed that the Magister--a venerable member of the Magisterium--held these same qualities. He did, to a certain extent. Even now many southern mages had misconceptions, the idea that Alexius was somehow larger than life, that he could likely make it rain simply by shooting a fireball into the sky. To them, Alexius was single-handedly keeping them from the Templar wolves, _not_ the weight of the name _Tevinter_.

Alexius studied the challenger.  Anders bore a quilted half-robe with feather pauldrons, dark black in color. He also bore a beard, and to the Fereldans there may have been some unintentional resemblance to the figure of Maric Theirin, with his loose blond hair.  His appearance was unkempt enough to seem dangerous without being entirely slovenly.

The Magister knew little else about the man, only what Anders himself had just claimed. He was a spirit healer born of commoners who started the mage rebellion in Kirkwall. This suggested that his skill in other schools, destruction and entropy, were possibly lacking. This also meant that if he were to hit Anders with a blast of anything, it would have to be brutally effective so as to render his healing abilities of little use.

The Elder One would not abide by any mistakes here. There was more on the line than honor or a few dozen southern mages. There was the promised restoration of the Imperium, not to mention the health of his only son.

Alexius beheld Felix then, his boy whom the Gods had decided to claim well before his time, youthful, intelligent, and strong. He could remember cradling Felix as a baby, swaddled in his equally tiny blanket, wide umber eyes staring back at him, entrusting the man with his health and salvation. He had failed him and his mother, and he would not do so again.

"Let it be known that I, Gereon Alexius, accept your challenge and your terms. I shall state my own demands: first, should I prove the winner of this duel, there will be no more argument against this alliance. Do you agree, Grand Enchanter?"

"I agree." There was no hesitation from Fiona; she had made her decision long ago.

"Second, I will hereby revoke the rights of protection covering this man, this challenger, before me. He will remain at the mercy of the Arl and the Templars. Third--" Alexius inhaled deeply, locking eyes with the impertinent rebel from afar. "You, Anders, will agree to never meddle in the affairs of these _Free Mages_ ever again."

There was some excitement among the throng, chattering about what this meant. Anders rubbed his lips together, poring over the demands.

 _A most unjust demand_ , came a voice in the back of his mind.

 _I know that_ , said the mage to himself. _But I have no intention of losing._

"I accept your terms, Magister."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope no-one's terribly scandalized by Zevran's salaciousness. At what point does it become time to change the rating? Hmm. On the other hand, perhaps there are more readers of the opposite opinion, thinking there needs to be quite a bit more scandalousness on that front.


	16. The Duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The match is decided.

At the insistence of Captain Alistair, the duel site selected was as far from the city center as possible. In fact, they had elected to use the dirt pathway from the city gate to the center of the town. The ground was hard, compacted clay, having seen the passage of thousands of feet, and there were high ridges on each side of the path.

Unfortunately for the duelists, the ridges also meant that their movement was somewhat constricted, confined to the width and length of the path. As for Anders, the city gate lay closed behind him, with guards standing by outside in the event that the Templars arrived to investigate the disturbance.

There was hardly room for spectators, but the mages had scrambled up the hills for a better view of the fight. Fiona made the rounds, urging her apprentices to higher ground, and cautioning those who were almost directly overhead the two opponents. She passed the Magister without a glance but stopped briefly next to Anders.

"I hope you are pleased with yourself."

" _Delighted_ ," he answered. "Someone has to stop you from making poor decisions."

The elven woman was not moved to anger; she seemed almost to pity him, lips skirting about a frown. "You are a sad and delusional man, Anders."

The Grand Enchanter moved to join Felix and Alistair nearby, preparing a flare from her staff. Anders shifted his head from side to side, smoothing out the cricks there, and then twirled his weapon in preparation. When he brought the base of his staff down on the calloused earth, lightning flared and his eyes flickered, just for amoment.

The Magister shirked back slightly--but then again, so did everyone. Several onlookers were reconsidering their choice of event seating. It had not been an attack, merely an act of intimidation.

The Junior Warden Calaros was peeking over the gap between Nathaniel and Millagre, eager to watch the battle. The number of emissaries he had fought could be counted on one hand, and there were precious few Warden mages in the Fereldan Chapter.

"I've seen Saarebas† practice. He lights up the night sky over the Keep. Sometimes if it's breezy, you'll catch a face full of embers."

Millagre arched an eyebrow. "I need to remind him about the fire hazard, then."

"They don't _usually_ burn," he added, embarrassed. "I don't think I've ever seen two magic practitioners fight before."

"I will say this: two talented mages trying to kill one another is possibly the most frightening and most exhilarating thing you will witness. In fact, we are probably too close."

"I have us covered, Commander."

Velanna had indeed shrouded them with another protective barrier. If the Wardens were to concentrate, they might see a faint shimmer in the air. This practice was second nature as a Warden, and occasionally she would erect a barrier without thinking about it.

Once the perimeter was secure, Alistair nodded to Fiona, who thrust her staff into the air and emitted a spark of flame above the two opponents. When it burst in the air, the duel had officially begun.

* * *

 

No sooner had the blast exploded than had both mages launched an almost simultaneous offensive. Anders arced his staff, drawing into existence a great wall of icicles where once there had been nothing. The chill raced across the barren earth towards the Magister's feet. The scant meadow grasses that lined the pathway were enveloped by the cold, became brittle, and broke apart.

The ice wall was dwarfed by a massive fireball unleashed by the Magister, and as the flames slammed against it, the crystalline shield shattered. Several ice shards flew back against Anders, plinking uselessly about his arcane shield, crinkling like music as they hit the ground and melted.. The fireball had been neutralized, however, and neither mage stopped their assault.

He hurled pure blasts of spirit from the tip of his staff as he circled, or at least attempted to circle. The battlefield was not such that Anders might eke out a hiding place and use guerilla tactics or even run out of range. He had been lucky to have had some very creative and unscrupulous friends, ones who had taught him to use the field to his advantage.

The problem with one-on-one battles between spellcasters lay in the fact that one well-placed spell was all it took to kill an opponent. Anders supposed it was that way in normal combat too, but could a dagger make a person explode into a hundred fleshy pieces and scatter them over a one-mile radius? The answer was a resounding no.

Alexius deflected the bolts of magic with relative ease, and from far afield murmured in Tevene as he began to cast an affliction. A magical crest sketched itself out about the mage, like an invisible finger drawing a perfect circle around his body. The glyph, once active, would root his body in place, stilling him for the coup de grace. Anders reacted instinctively; he opened his palm and expended his mana to cleanse the field around him. To the onlookers, an ethereal cloud had exploded from his body, sweeping outward in a concentric circle.

The curse dissipated before it had had the chance to complete, and Anders darted forward to close the gap between himself and the Magister. The latter had refrained from curses and instead drew his crescent-moon staff along the earth. Alexius hurtled several chunks of rock at great velocity at the blond, and they struck home, and would surely have killed the man had his barrier not flared to repel and break apart the debris.

Anders surged forward, drawing several skeins of energy from the Fade. He was no Hawke, did not usually fight close-quarters as the man did, but he could feel his friend with him in spirit. He was dangerously close to the Magister now, and Alexius could sense that the proximity was inconvenient for him. The rebel's eyes flashed again, and pure Fade energy crackled into electricity, criss-crossing his tangible barrier.

To Millagre and Nathaniel and the others, Anders appeared much like a walking lightning bomb. The ambient air was charged, and tendrils of electricity occasionally leapt in random directions, never quite meeting or connecting with anyone but threatening to. If Alexius suddenly caused him to discharge all at once, however, that might be another matter. Anders tossed a hand forward, and an arc of lightning connecting with the Magister with speed too quick to be seen by the human eye.

The deafening blast was heard a second later as Alexius' barrier attempted to swallow the energy and was effectively neutralized. It was quickly erected before Anders managed a second strike of lightning, and this time the barrier withstood his attack. Perhaps even Alexius took this as a challenge, for the man began to command electricity of his own. Much like the Knight Enchanters of old, Alexius channeled the destructive force into his staff, until the lightning was compressed and steaded into a blade at the end.

The magic-enhanced staff boasted an impressive reach, and he began to swipe at Anders with it. Every time the rebel's barrier was struck by its length, the electricity collected around him sparked precariously, and Anders' barrier flickered unevenly. Then Alexius attempted to transfer a massive burst of energy into Anders reservoir of electricity, supercharging him.

It was too much. Threads of lightning arced out in multiple directions, leaping stories high, startling the onlookers and causing the mages to cast wave after wave of protective spells. Alistair jumped when an electric tongue darted out at him and stopped short. He glanced appreciatively at Fiona, who shook her head as though to say, _Not to worry_.

Anders and Alexius were swallowed by the lightning, and Millagre shrank instinctively against Nathaniel, shielding her eyes. One need not have been raised in Orzammar to find the luminescence blinding; the archer endeavored to catch a glimpse of either of the two men's silhouettes from beneath his gauntlet, but it was almost too painful.

When the men became visible again, the Magister used a carefully-timed _Mind Blast_ to launch the wiry-framed apostate backwards. Anders felt the distinct sensation of flying, and enlivening though it was, had a single thought cross his mind: _Sweet Maker_. He crashed hard against the ground, rolling a short distance, knowing that he had just earned a bruise or two.

 _Get on your feet_ , a voice commanded him.

He coughed, tasting the iron of his blood. A small trickle had spouted from his nose. Anders propped himself up on his arms as he saw the Magister striding towards him, already casting another spell. Anders glanced desperately around for his staff, which lay a few feet away. He pressed a foot into the ground to push himself to stand, stetching his fingers to claim it--

\--as his body stiffened into a board under him. His barrier had lapsed, and the Magister had wasted no time in paralyzing his physical body, binding his movement. He could see the glyph which had writ itself into the hard clay beneath him, glowing steadily.

 _You must get on your feet_ , rumbled the voice again.

 _Shut up, I'm trying!_ he argued back to himself.

Anders was willing his body to move, willing magic within his veins, but it was not enough to break the glyph. Just a little further--connect to the Fade--

The Magister had summoned a blade of flame to the edge of his staff. He would not waste his time talking or monologuing; his intent was clear enough. He readied his staff as though it were an axe and he an executioner. He swung it down at Anders' neck, an easy target--

And then with supernatural speed, Anders had gripped the fire blade with his bare hands. The fire should have rent his delicate flesh, but his hands had been reinforced with spirit energy. In fact, Alexius was quite taken by surprise to see that he was no longer facing the same apostate as before. The man's eyes flashed the color of lyrium, and his body had illuminated like a lantern with the power remniscent of the Fade. It was as though Anders' shell was barely enough to contain the spirit, but hold it it did.

The glyph faded beneath him. Anders squeezed the flame between his fingers until it petered into nothingness, and then gripped the staff. The Magister felt an onset of panic as he endeavored wrench the weapon away, but Anders seemed to be holding it with more than just muscle now. He punched swiftly with his opposite hand at the Tevinter then.

What would have been a useless maneuver pierced the barrier, smashing Gereon Alexius' nose. The man yelped in pain as he stumbled backwards. Felix stared from across the battlefield and tensed, his mouth agape in horror.

"I will end you, and release all these Mages from your tyranny!" bellowed Justice, for he now possessed Anders body and commanded it as his own.

"By Andraste! The man's an abomination..." Alistair could not believe what he was seeing, or perhaps he could. Had Anders just said _yes_ to a demon in the Fade while no-one was paying attention? It seemed so to the Captain of the Redcliffe Guard, and he realized that he was the only Templar here now. He glanced to his side. The Grand Enchanter seemed equally appalled and unsure what to do.

Alistair unsheathed his sword.

Justice's hands sparked with powerful magic as he stalked vengefully towards the Magister, aiming to finish what Anders had started, as Anders protested loudly in the back of his head.

 _Not in front of all these people! Not here! What are you doing_?

And Justice hesitated, torn between helping Anders accomplish his mission and wrenching control from the mage. When he saw the Magister reaching for his amulet, however, the abomination lashed out, grabbing it along with the man's robes with a single hand, dragging the Magister to stand.

"You will forfeit, Mage, or I will break you."

The Magister sent out a telekinetic blast, but it did not so much as repel Justice as it did repel him _from_ Justice. The Tevinter's fall was broken somewhat by his own barrier. Anders--if it had ever truly been Anders--flashed spectacularly, dark smoke irradiating off him, the mark of a possessed man. Anders' staff lay forgotten behind him, and now Justice ran forward like an enraged bronto. With the flick of his wrist he conjured a spirit sword, and it caused the air to _sing_ as it danced between the real world and the Fade, striking against the Magister's newly erected barrier.

Felix ran into Anders' field of view now, desperate that his father not be killed. His staff was at the ready, to attack the abomination.

"I won't let you hurt him!"

"Justice will be _done_ ," thundered the spirit within Anders. With one final strike, he smashed through the Magister's barrier, but not before Felix came upon him with a wave of fire. Justice snapped his attention to the interloper and began to collect a ball of energy in his opposite fist--

"Pardon _me_ , Wardens." Another mage--a young man with his hood drawn over his face-roughly pushed by Nathaniel and sprinted out onto the Battlefield, in Felix's direction.

He was not the only one. The Grand Enchanter and a select few others were cautiously sidling up the abomination, now distracted by the Tevinter.

"Felix, no---" murmured the man. Alexius looked up to see Justice release a powerful blast of force at his son, unable to make out anything beyond.

Yet the blast stopped, and the Magister felt something hot and wet pouring onto him. When Gereon Alexius returned his attention to the abomination looming above, he saw a sword sticking out of Anders' middle, the rebel apostate's barrier completely shattered. The man's eyes were natural now, soft and bronze, and in a state of shock.

 _This is a first_ , thought Anders in the distant haze of his mind. He had no other thoughts, and completely blacked out.

Alistair dislodged his blade from Anders' body, and the apostate's body slumped backwards into a broken heap, eyes rolled into the back of his head. The Magister watched with atonishment at the former Templar; he did not see his son, Felix, frantically wave a certain hooded mage away from view.

"Thank you, Captain," said Alexius once he had caught his breath. "I am in your debt."

Alistair felt his stomach lurch. He had not meant to _help_ the Magister, but he had been to Kinloch Hold during the demon outbreak. A man under the influence of a demon was a danger to everyone and had to be put down, Grey Warden or no. The blond stared down at the lifeblood coating his sword, then at the man he had felled...

...his body was still the same, unlike other abominations he had slain. _But he was not human then_ , Alistair reminded himself.

The Magister climbed to his feet, dusting off his robes. He gave Anders a slight nudge with his foot, then hummed in disappointment. "Still alive," he said. "No matter. He soon won't be."

When he saw one of the local spirit healers approaching, Alexius raised a hand to hault them. "In Tevinter, we condone the practice of communicating with _some_ spirits. But this man gave himself over entirely. He is too far gone, and cannot come back. Leave him to die."

"But, Magister--" protested the healer.

"You are indentured to me now. You will use your talents _only_ when I allow it. No use wasting your energy on this abomination."

It seemed then that Redcliffe was to be Anders' final resting place. In time, Anathemus Hawke--the Champion of Kirkwall--would come to learn of his valiant duel. It is true that Anders would have likely become a part of history were it not for a certain capricious dwarf.

"Velanna, with me."

Warden-Commander Stonecipher and her Senior Warden marched forward, her expression as hard as the land in which she'd been born. Those who had gathered around the Magister watched, and she largely ignored them, stepping past Alistair until she knelt beside the rebel apostate, feeling for his pulse.

And then: "Velanna, I need you to heal him."

"Yes, Commander." The elven woman pushed aside her personal feelings and began to use her knowledge of the Creation school to breathe life into the abomination, and Alistair was nonplussed by the decision. The Magister, meanwhile, grew quite angry.

"This is no longer a man," he spat out. "He is a demon who not only tried to murder me, but my son as well."

Millagre shrugged. "That's not for me to decide."

" _Captain_ ," said Alexius tersely, "Please educate the dwarf."

Then Alistair was even more conflicted, for he disagreed strongly with his ex-girlfriend's decision, but felt himselt grow annoyed with the Magister's disrespect for her, the Order, and lest he forget, _his uncle Teagan_. He had slain Anders--or, well, _attempted_ to slay Anders--out of a sense of duty and care for the people of Redcliffe, not to protect the Magister. Perhaps it would have been best to have the abomination kill the Magister, then kill the abomination.

"This is Warden-Commander Stonecipher," Alistair corrected him, lifting his chin in defiance. "The Hero of Ferelden. Mind who you're talking to."

The man scoffed. "I _beg your pardon_ , then, but you're hardly as impressive as the stories make you out to be. But surely **you** would not be so foolish as to think the man still exists now. You will endager us all."

"Surely it is no crime to render aid, Magister?"

The dwarf woman batted her eyelashes in feigned innocence.

Alexius inhaled calmly, collecting himself, then stiffly moved over to the Grand Enchanter. Millagre apparently had her answer. She narrowed her eyes at the Tevinter and then at Felix, who, uncomfortable now that he was being glared at, smiled oddly and moved to join his father. The dwarf Warden folded her arms and stood beside Velanna. Anders' breath had softened as she worked.

"Millagre..." Alistair warned. "When he wakes up, that man is going to be dangerous."

"If he attacks me, I will slit his throat open. Make no mistake."

The former Templar raked a hand through his hair again, then scratched his scalp nervously. "So....okay, look, no offense _intended_ , but why would you even risk being attacked?"

"Because he was my friend once. _Both_ of them were."

 

* * *

 

†A Qunlat word meaning "mage," lit. dangerous thing. Saarebas was also a trade name for the Wardens' resident Rivaini mage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally conceived this story, I had no idea they would be spending half their time in Redcliffe. Ach. So it goes. The story will eventually move into Orlais though, really! Exciting place, Orlais. Full of...Orlesians.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders learns of the aftermath of the duel. Zevran does his best to harden Alistair and to talk him into making a questionable decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders has PTSD from the Circle, and the cause is alluded to without being graphic.
> 
> I also debated on which version of Hawke to use. Good ol' Garrett, or someone slightly different? In the end, I decided on using my own OC Hawke. He's a pro-mage ... mage, sarcastic personality. I figure Hawke is Hawke though, no matter their name or gender.

**6 Weeks Ago**

"Well, here we are. Home sweet home."

They stood in the doorway to a little Redcliffe shack, seeing motes of dust floating lazily in the sun. The taller of the two strode in, swinging the keychain about his pointer finger, appraising his purchase. Anders followed him, wriggling his nose as he fought back a sneeze.

It was certainly a "fixer-upper," and the owner to the title had admitted as such. No human, elf, or dwarf had lived there in quite some time. Old rusted traps in the corner, bits of netting tacked onto the walls. There was a sunken, discolored mattress atop a sad-looking boxspring. The blond-haired mage tapped the mattress with the edge of his staff, and dust billowed off in a great plume. Anders shielded his mouth and nose.

"I don't know about this place, Hawke."

Hawke drew his finger drawn across the mantle of the fireplace, and it came away with a dark grey coating of what might have been ash. He rubbed it off with his thumb.

"Now, _Anders_. I know the real estate here is not quite as dank and gloomy as Darktown, and there are far too few giant spiders. But I think--in time--you could make this place your own."

Hawke did not so much as examine the bed before he plopped down, and the mattress sank further beneath his weight with an ominous creak.The other mage's lips drew thin in vague horror, as though the man had just committed a grave sin--or cast blood magic. Who knew what sentient creatures lived within the linen's confines?

"So you aren't staying with me."

"No, I'm afraid not. I have an appointment to keep."

The blond nodded slowly, tucking his arms across his chest. "I worry about you, going off alone. Particularly when there's a war about. Queen Anora has given this place to _people just like us_ \--"

"Oh, I'll be fine." The mage's protests were met with a dismissive wave.

"An unexplained appointment at an undefined location with an unknown contact? There's nothing suspicious at all about that."

"I'll be _fine_. Really. Actually--" Hawke laid his hands upon his knees and pushed himself up again. His approach was deliberate, and every step he took echoed a pronounced clunk through the small building. Soon he had closed the gap of personal space, a towering figure who might be more intimidating if he weren't so gangly and unserious.

It had been said that Anathemus Hawke had a face only a mother could love, and only if that mother were not Leandra. Anders had found that to be an exaggeration, though Hawke was certainly a face difficult to forget. He possessed a strong, aquiline nose and a vivid jet of red hair. Also the uncanny ability to look like an Avvar tribesman whenever he grew out his beard.

"--It's you I'm worried about. Yours is a name known across Thedas these days. Honestly, it would not surprise me if even the Qunari in Par Vollen know all about you."

"And so you had the brilliant idea to march us straight into Redcliffe?" Anders chucked his thumb in the direction of the town. "You do realize I lived just up the road from here. Kinloch Hold ring any bells? Half the Fereldan mages know who I am."

The redhead shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I don't know what to tell you, Anders. Short of living in a cave, this is the best I could come up with. Cut your hair, grow out a beard--change your name, maybe. Whatever it takes, just lay low."

"An alias," he hummed. "Maybe I'll call myself Garrett?"

"Ah-ah, Garrett is off limits. That's _my_ alias." 

"You're not serious about that name, are you?" Anders cocked his head back, lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. He had known the man for a decade, give or take. As a man of great renown, Hawke's name was widespread, known throughout all of Thedas--or very nearly. If only the Chant of Light had had the same publicity. "What's wrong with _Emus_?"

The man chuffed. "Everything? My mother wanted a stand-out child in every way, and was under the influence of some very strong painkillers. She named me with this expectation."

"In the form of a fiery-haired apostate with a terrible sense of humor."

"Yes, I would say my mother got **exactly** what she asked for." Hawke smiled fondly as he thought of his family, of whom only two remained now. "She wised up the second time, though. Chose more normal names. Carver, Bethany."

Hawke's memory stirred, and he rubbed his bottom lip with large, weathered fingers. Even his knuckles had matching fine hairs. Before he became too lost to his remniscing, he diverted his attention back to Anders.

"You chose your name, didn't you?" Anders was silent, but before he was able to answer Hawke continued on. "There's a sort of freedom in it. Maybe I want to be a regular old bloke named Garrett from time to time."

The blond folded his arms. "I've known you too long, Emus. You will never look like a Garrett."

Hawke's eyes sparkled sadly. "Perhaps not."

The ensuing pause was uncomfortable, and it gave both men the distinct impression that something was being left unsaid. It might have been the knowledge that their parting was inevitable.

"If something happens, I won't be here. You will be on your own."

Anders couldn't be involved, it was too risky. His blood was still tainted.

Hawke did not relish the thought of leaving his fellow mage alone. They had been remained traveling together after Kirkwall even after the others had split off. Hawke could have chosen anyone else to travel with--but their fate had always seemed tied together. He'd supported Anders' crusade for the rights of mages, perhaps naively so, and felt indirectly responsible for what had happened at the Chantry. After that, Anders had been branded, had become a pariah in all places where there were mages and templars.

"That's not _completely_ true." The corner of Anders' mouth arched.

"Ah, that's right."

Hawke leaned uncomfortably close, poked a finger to his cheek, then pulled down his eyelid. "Hello, Justice? Are you in there?" He squinted. "Hmm, how odd. I don't see the creepy glowing eyes anywhere."

Anders batted his hand away. "You know that's not how it works, right? He is listening to you talk right now.

"I can't imagine what that'd be like. No privacy at all?"

Anders smirked. "Does help me stay focused."

Hawke sucked in his cheek, then at his teeth. Anders knew he never really would understand how it was like to share a vessel, but he was thankful enough that his friend did not completely write him off. "Okay, then. _Justice_ , this message is for you: keep Anders out of trouble for me, all right?"

"I'll keep myself out of trouble," sighed the mage. "I promise, Hawke."

"Strange," remarked the taller man. "Usually you complain about not being dragged along on my adventures."

"Perhaps some of us have had a bit too much adventuring," he laughed quietly. "I know I've had my fill with you."

Bushy eyebrows wrestled on his brow like antagonistic caterpillars. "I will come back for you, but it might not be soon. Months, maybe."

"It's fine, Hawke. The Conclave will mark a crucial turning point in _our_ history, and when I think that I am here to witness it--oh, _Maker_."

He drew a thumb against his eyelid, pre-empting a single tear. Even though the Chantry was involved, even though the Divine and the Templar Order were involved, Anders still dared to hope. If this was to be the end of his own story, he wanted to see it end happily. And his friend had made it happen, supported him, _spared his life_ and allowed him to see this.

So moved was he by thought that he pulled his friend into a sudden embrace.

And, unexpected though it was, Hawke did not pull away, nor did he have any witticisms to fire back. He was silent, and he moved his arms around the mage's back and held him.

"Thank you for everything, Hawke." He half-murmured the sentiment into the redhead's shoulder, the fur tickling his nose. And he meant _everything_ \--all that Emus Hawke had done to support him in his campaign for mage freedom since Anders had met him in Kirkwall, all the years spent as his friend, and Hawke's near-unconditional love in face the of betrayal. 

"You mean you've accepted the idea of this house at last?"

"It's not a Circle. I will live."

"All right, buddy." Hawke clapped his back playfully, then drew away. "You're a grown man. Toughen up. I'll be back before you know it."

Watching Hawke slink off into the evening was a bittersweet moment, but Anders could clearly remember that trademark toothy grin of his and the song of his voice. This was how it should be, seeing the man off without a care in the world. He did not have the heart to tell Hawke about his Calling. It would not make a difference, at any rate.

Anders sighed. Then he pulled out a broom.

* * *

When he came to, he saw nothing but darkness.

When he moved, he felt heavy, abrasive cuffs upon his bare wrists, accompanied by the clinking of chains. Anders realized he was lying prone and that someone had pulled and bound his hands above his head.

He panicked.

His body came to life, and every bone in his being told him to _fight_ , to escape. But he could not, for he was bound. His breath shook, his limbs seized, his heart beat furiously in its cavity. Instinctively he summoned magic to his aid only to find it absorbed into the enchanted bracers he wore. Anders could see them light up with dwarven rune etchings above him--his own personal night light. He pulled and rattled them with physical force, to little effect.

"Maker, no!" he half-cried, half-choked. "Please. No more of this. Don't leave me here!"

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, a voice stalwart and commanding told him to compose himself, but Anders could scarcely hear him. He was in solitary confinement again, he'd never escaped. His memories of Amaranthine and Kirkwall did not seem real. Fever dreams, hallucinations at best.

The more he thrashed about, the more Anders' stomach began to ache terribly--deep, numbing pain. His breath hitched and coiled into himself, cheeks wet with tears.

He did not recognize the dark figure who approached him then, but he whimpered audibly. Anders expected it to be a Templar, as he could see the faint glitter and outline of armor, but the man merely lit the lantern at Anders' bedside table. The soldier extinguished the match between his fingers with the violent flick of his wrist.

"It's just me, Anders. Nothing to fear."

The voice was low and familiar and served to ground him. _Nathaniel Howe_. At this recognition, Anders instantly recalled further pertinent facts, namely that he had not been captured and returned to Kinloch Hold (or its nearest equivalent now that it had fallen into ruin). No, he was in his clinic--his _new_ clinic, the one that Hawke had encouraged him to establish.

Then he remembered the duel. Anders' heart began to race once more. _The duel against the Magister_. Why couldn't he remember it? What had happened, exactly?

"Nathaniel," Anders said, shaken. He tried to reach up to touch the man, just to make sure he was real, but found his arms still bound. He swallowed against his constricting throat.

"You've had nightmares." The Warden's face was shadowed in the lantern light, and the sharp corners of the table cast grisly, suggestive forms on the far wall. "Relax now."

He felt Nathaniel apply a cool compress to his forehead. Anders had not realized how warm he'd felt until then, how hot his cheeks were.  So he relaxed as much as he was able, focused on the rhythm of his breathing, on the sensation of the pillow beneath his head, on the sound of the wind sneaking in through the cracks in the shutters. 

"Why am I bound?" he rasped, after the initial surge of panic had subsided.

"The Captain's orders," Nathaniel answered him, turning away from Anders' bedside. The apostate could hear the pouring of water from a pitcher. Suddenly, he desired that water more than anything. "The Magister would not accept anything less."

Anders nearly blanched at the news. _The Magister was alive_.

"I lost?" The plaintive, pathetic intonation of his question indicated that Anders already knew the answer.

"Indeed. Though not for lack of fighting ability, which you seem to possess in spades. At least, more than you did fresh from the Circle."

Warden Howe was the embodiment of patience, it seemed. He helped prop Anders up on several clinic pillows, though they were, unfortunately, of the bare-minimum variety and not at all the luxurious goosefeather down ones that had been at Hawke's estate. A strict years-long training regimen had kept the Grey Warden strong, and he handled Anders with ease. Still, Nathaniel was careful not to disturb his wounds overmuch.

Then the Grey Warden archer produced a full glass of water. Anders reached to accept, but his chains snapped short with tension before he could grasp it. He felt frustrated, but too tired to be angry.

"You are extremely dehydrated," said Nathaniel. "Drink."

Anders was not about to ask the Warden how he _knew_ , or perhaps Nathaniel had merely guessed. Either way, he was correct. The mage coveted the full glass, and his pride was not about to get in the way of allowing himself to be fed water like a baby. Anders drank briskly, greedily, and Nathaniel had to refill the glass three more times.

"That was the best I've ever tasted!" He sighed in relief, slumping back onto his mound of pillows. "Thank you. You're my life-saver, Nathaniel."

"You owe most of your thanks to Velanna. She worked tirelessly to restore you to your current state."

He did not specify just how tirelessly, though he overheard the woman complaining to the Commander earlier about _impossible demands_. The wound he had sustained was fatal to most men. Whether it was divine providence, or Justice, or simply luck, Anders had survived long enough to be treated. The elf had been left to sort and stitch up the innards as best she could, but it had been an incomplete job.

Afterwards, she'd retired to her tent and ordered her charges not to disturb her. Velanna had slept a full twelve hours after that, and made it known how displeased she was with the Wardens' communal pea soup the following morning.

That was three days ago.

"I'll remember to thank her, but what happened?" asked Anders. He could feel his skin itch beneath the bandages around his middle. For once his bindings had an upside.

"Justice happened."

Anders hesitated, for now Nathaniel had learned his secret. He had purposely omitted the details about Justice's involvement in his affairs, but the Wardens knew, now.

"He was going to win the duel for you," continued the archer. "He very nearly did. But the others, they thought you'd given in to a demon. There were several dozen witnesses."

_Several dozen witnesses_ , Anders thought. With so many firsthand accounts corroborating one another, the knowledge of what the man was, or what they believed he was, would spread until everyone knew. Anders felt vaguely ashamed, too, as though he had let down his fellow mages. Everyone knew the basic Free Mage tenets: do not hurt people, do not practice blood magic, and most certainly _do not say yes_. He had technically broken the last rule, just not to a demon.

Though Anders had not died, he had been discredited. That was almost as bad. _And you pledged not to meddle_ _in their affairs if you lost_ , a rogue voice in his head reminded him.

"And did you think I had?" The mage's voice cracked slightly. "How did you realize--"

Nathaniel's lips curled, and he drew up a chair by the bedside. "We've known for years, Anders. Though, if we had not--the surprise would have been all the greater, hearing his voice speak through you."

"You've known for years?"

"You are acquainted with Carver Hawke, as I recall."

"That little tit," sighed Anders. "I should have guessed it would be him."

"It's more accurate to say that Carver preferred not talking about you at all. The Commander prodded him. She was very curious about you."

The Warden-Commander always had been, bless her heart. _Why am I not surprised_? Anders thought. _She was always asking questions_. _Circle this, Templar that._

_She simply wanted to be your friend_ , came another thought. _It is how mortals_ _bond with one another_. 

Anders rolled his eyes, which Nathaniel did not interpret as the end part of an inner dialogue.

“And perhaps you can guess the rest of the story?” continued the archer. “The Captain ran you through. I imagine he found it easier to do than the others, being a former Templar.”

“The Captain?” He inhaled sharply, and tried not to imagine the blade tearing through him. Anders failed, and he could almost _feel_ the phantom implement rending him from the inside.

Did Alistair feel no compunction for his decision? Or had he simply been looking for an excuse to put him to death, whether or not he was responsible for the Conclave? 

“Speaking of, I thought he’d banned you Grey Wardens from the clinic.”

"He's relaxed the rule somewhat," Nathaniel explained. "Now one of us is allowed in at a time."

"How thoughtful of him."

Anders' voice was dripping with sarcasm, and the Warden-Constable though to step around the puddle rather than straight into it. He could empathize with the man's situation. Indeed, when he had come to learn that the mage was still down and out for the count, Nathaniel had taken to examining his personal effects and settled on his unfinished literature. There had been a formally written book, a sort of manifesto, and then another book which housed Anders' collection of thoughts and ideas. It was this Nathaniel regarded with interest, for it seemed that Anders had been struck with inspiration from time to time, during which he would write in intense, manic bursts. Or so it appeared to Nathaniel, what with all the strikethroughs and squiggles and word corrections. 

Some sections of it was very stream-of-consciousness, and Nathaniel had puzzled over the occasional enigmatic statement, trying to decide the author's intent. Perhaps in two hundred years, the mages--perhaps everyone--might study his writings. How would the mages interpret it? Would the Chantry permit copies of these texts to be in existence? Would the Chantry even be the same as it was then?

"How long have you been here, Nathaniel?"

It was past dusk, well beyond the time the Warden had intended to remain. Not that he had anywhere to be, exactly. If someone needed him, then one of the other Wardens would have been sent to fetch him or deliver news. 

"Just a few hours," he said. "Why?"

"Just curious. It's flattering, really." A grin was eating its way up the mage's face. "To think you came all this way just to watch me sleep." 

"It was very boring, and I fell asleep myself."

Anders sulked playfully. "Well, that's harsh."

"Apologies, serah." Nathaniel Howe stood, much to Anders' envy, and tucked his dark hair behind his ear. "You will want food, I expect. Let me find some."

He nodded weakly in acknowledgement to the Warden, then sighed to himself, closing his eyes. Resting was both intolerable to him just then, yet his body craved it. 

_The Wardens are jolly compared to everyone in Kirkwall. Remind me again why I left them?_ _  
_

_Shall I count the ways? You were afraid of the Warden-Commander's ire for killing those Templar-Wardens, a crime punishable by death, justifiable though it was. And as long as you remained bound to the Wardens, you would be unable to involve yourself in the struggles for mage freedoms. There was also that one named Karl--_

_Oh, yes_ , thought Anders with a pained sigh. _I remember a_ _ll those things now._

* * *

It was strange, sitting in the middle of the common room and drinking tea. Alistair had not anticipated how it would impact his ability to socialize with the men, to be the only one in the group not sampling the local spirits, sitting dry as all the others were swept up in a jovial buzz. _Just a little pint, Captain, what's the harm_ ? they might say--had said, on a number of occasions. _The water's a bit spotty in these parts_ was another.

The mead was ample, relatively speaking, as the guardsmen had convinced Alexius to let them access their stores in Castle Redcliffe. Kinney and Felicia had been among those to haul the kegs back under cover of darkness. It had been quite the trick to find a proper storage place for them, too. The Barracks were off limits, and so the guard tower on the outskirts had been the only remaining choice. But the building had not been made for the remaining number of their forces, and they'd been unable to obtain temporary lodging with the influx of refugees.

A few of the citizens of Redcliffe had invited the guards into their homes, but Alistair had been adamant not to take advantage of the populace. To be offered was one thing; to demand was yet another. He was no Alexius.

That Alistair was not alone in his habit now was comforting. He glanced over at the woman beside him, now that the room was silent.

"He has an army of mages and he's staying in Redcliffe."

"Were you expecting different?" Millagre stared ahead at nothing of particular import, just the uniform stacking of the stones used to build the tower, which she was silently critiquing.

"I was, in fact. He got what he wanted with the mages, so what reason does he have to stay?" The man shook his head slowly. "I even asked him about his itinerary, and he laughed and waved me off. Andraste help me, what a fool I was."

"Then maybe he _doesn't_ have what he wants." 

"Maybe so. Hard to believe he would want an Arling in Ferelden. This is hardly the place to build a summer home." The blond trailed off with a chuckle, then sighed.

"Antivan summers are no laughing matter. If Tevinter's anywhere near that hot, _phew_." Millagre took a sip, then sloshed the liquid about in the bottom of her tankard. "One thing's for sure: if the Magister waits around, the only thing he'll get is Teagan's boot on his ass."

Alistair frowned. "Do you think it will come to that? Fighting?"

"Anora will send troops," said the dwarf, thoughtful. "Somehow it doesn't seem in his best interest to hurl all the free mages into combat like that. We'll have another Ostagar...in a manner of speaking."

"It makes no sense. You don't think this is some elaborate Tevinter plot to invade the South, do you? Draw away the royal army and attack Denerim?"

A smile played on her lips, hidden by the tankard. "Replace _Tevinter_ with _Orlais_ and you sound like Loghain."

The Captain nearly choked.

"I don't trust that Magister either way," she continued, tightening her grip. "Who was here two days after the Conclave explosion? Who swooped in and offered them protection? That means he was already in the country, there's no way about it."

The entry door into the common room groaned on its hinges as Zevran showed himself inside. He pulled down the hood of his cloak to reveal a soft blush tingeing his cheeks.

"Yes, he certainly...swooped in."

The Antivan hopped up the split-level steps and drifted towards them, knowingly the object of their focus. "I see you both are nice and cozy in here. And sitting together, who would have thought? Did you kiss and make up?"

"Er, in a matter of speaking." Alistair had not spoken much of the events in the past few days, at least not to the Warden-Commander.

He had watched her for signs of suspicious activity, but there was little to follow up on. The Wardens were boring lately. They would seek out the least populous areas in Redcliffe for training in the mornings, though the simple fact of _Wardens training_ would always garner some attention. Mostly in the form of children.

Though it had been entertaining to watch Millagre and Nathaniel perform chokes on each other, if only because of the size difference.

"Not much in the way of kissing," the Warden mused. "I was somewhat disappointed.”

Alistair, blushing, found the Antivan invading his personal space, for Zevran had pulled up a chair between them, forcing both to inch aside.

“We will remedy that later, my dear Warden.” The Captain missed the wink Zevran flashed her. “What were you both just discussing?”

The Magister was still the topic of the hour, and he would remain as such until the Arl returned to claim Redcliffe. Or, as the more pessimistic liked to suggest, until the Breach expanded to swallow the world--whichever occurred first.

Zevran nodded his understanding as each spoke in turns, though to the assassin it was quite clear Alistair was feeling emasculated in his role. He was the Protector of the Town, but keeping order and making sure the refugees had the necessities of life were all the guards could manage.

"Let me speak with our good friend Alistair." They exchanged meaningful glances, and then Zevran bent forward to plant a kiss on her forehead. "Privately, _amor_."

“All right. Better not concern _me_.”

Millagre waved her departure then strode out into the night air. Alistair could feel a slight draft as she exited, then made a mental note to add more kindling to the fire.

"What is this about, Zevran?"

"Since you are the highest-ranking man in Redcliffe now, I thought you might use some advice on how to deal with your situation."

"Everyone and their mother has an opinion about the Magister," Alistair sighed. "I've heard them all.

"You wish to be rid of him, do you not? The Magister?"

"Of course. If I could wave my hand and be rid of the problem, that would be ideal. But that isn't going to happen. Not until Teagan returns, and we certainly can’t let the Templar Order in. Our hands our tied.”

Zevran hopped up onto the table, using his former chair as a foot stool. _What is wrong with the chair_?  was what Alistair wanted to ask him. _Do they sit on tables in Antiva_?

The Captain refrained from letting his annoyance be known, but it was an effective way to harness Alistair’s attention. As for Zevran, he had simply wanted to look at him face-to-face.

"There is one approach which has yet to be fully explored."

"Please don't say what I think you're going to say."

"...Assassination?"

Alistair groaned and raked his hand with his hands, laying his forehead upon the table. "Here I was, hoping you'd surprise me with an actual solution, not just another joke."

"Assassination is _always_ a solution, my friend. Though not always appropriate." He leaned forward, folding his arms upon his knees, staring at the dejected-looking guardsman. "A joke it is certainly not."

The man peeked an eye out from beneath his arms, and Zevran's face was painted with a deadly seriousness. For all his words, smiles, and jests, it was easy to forget that the elf had been born and bred as an assassin. Alistair had never pried very far into his history, but he was given the distinct impression that Zevran had claimed no fewer than a dozen marks before he'd come to Ferelden. 

"You're...serious?"

"That I am. Violence is how mankind traditionally solves its problems," he said coolly, crossing his legs and leaning back on his palms. "The Dwarva and the Elvhen too, or so I am told.

"That man--Anders--tried to accomplish it in a more socially acceptable manner. He failed, and in no small part because you stabbed him, quite literally in the back, though I imagine other people would have done so if you had not."

The guardsman flushed in embarrassment at the backstabbing implication, though Zevran had said it so matter-of-factly and without judgment. "That duel should never have taken place. No-one had realized he was possessed."

"It did give him an edge, no? Alas."

Alistair stared at him carefully. “Was that a _joke_? Edge, as in _sword edge_?”

“Oh ho.” The table elf’s eyes twinkled. “You are better than you used to be.”

"Possession is not something to take lightly. The moment he said _yes_ to that thing inside him was the moment that man died. It's a tragedy for all involved. Every time he has regained consciousness, it's been those _blue eyes_."

"Yes," Zevran agreed readily, "most people would be quite angry at being stabbed. Though I try not to take it personally."

"You don't have to be so flippant about it."

"I treat the topic with the respect it deserves, my dear Alistair. I am offended by the way you are staring at me so accusingly."

“You weren’t there at Kinloch Hold†. Maybe you just can’t understand.”

When Zevran spoke again, he spoke with solemnity, almost reverently, as though something had shifted in him. It was as though he had lowered the shield which held back the tide of memory.

“You are right, I wasn’t. But I was in Kirkwall.”

Zevran could remember the smell. It was the smell of burning flesh on top of the pungent fish and sewage aroma which often permeated the city. It was, perhaps, much worse than the tanneries he had grown up with in Antiva City. The sky was one part dark, the other ablaze, an exercise in violent contrasts. The roaring carcass of a building had collapsed into one of the pathways in Lowtown, and he was standing back-to-back with Nathaniel Howe, surrounded by shades--

The elf closed his eyes, then opened them.

"Now, where were we?" Zevran continued, acting as though he had not been transported half a world away for the space of several seconds. "Ah, yes. To return to the original topic--"

" _No._ "

"No?"

"Assassinating people, that's just not...look, normal people don't even consider that an option."

"Very well, it is your decision." The elf exhaled his disappointment in a dramatic fashion, then woefully rubbed his neck. "Perhaps your Arl friend will return with a royal army, and the Magister will be so intimidated that he will retreat to Tevinter. This is the best outcome, but as you and I are smart, worldly adults, we know that this will not come to pass."

Zevran was painting him a fantastic mental image, and Alistair imagined Teagan dressed in his warrior's garb marching up to Gereon Alexius with a sword and pointing at the door. If it were just one mage, or even two mages when one factored in the Magister's son, perhaps that would have worked.

But no-one mentioned the _other_ Tevinter mages which also lived in Redcliffe Castle, the ones which never made public appearances. On the occasions during which Alistair had bumped into them, these mages had not even spoken. The Captain wondered if there was a language barrier, but he had assumed _common_ was spoken in all parts of Thedas.

They wore outlandish clothing and wore sharply tapered helmets, which Alistair thought resembled repurposed kitchen mandolins. That did not stop them from being intimidating, however. Zevran was unaware of his flight of fancy, and continued to lilt the details of the imagined encounter.

"Likely it will come to blows, in some form or fashion. And people will die. This...is to be expected, as people are generally very fragile creatures. Everywhere on the body, you find something important. Perhaps the outer limbs are not truly necessary, but a man can still die from losing them. In any case, we can excuse this away and say, _That is fine and well and good, Zevran--these men are soldiers, they have signed on for this_.

"Say that the Arl of Redcliffe with his bolstered army confronts the Magister. If there are to be casualties, and they meet first for a chat, then he will be the first unless he is very, _very_ good at running."

Alistair froze. His uncle would be staring down a cult of creepy mages _and_ the Magister in his attempt to reclaim the city, and from what the Magister had told him earlier--or refused to tell him, rather--the situation seemed quite inevitable. The elf watched the subtle changes occur on Alistair's face, not without sympathy, and lowered his voice:

"There is one thing you should consider, my friend. The death of one can save the many; the lives of a few assassins, the lives of several dozen soldiers. Perhaps it would even render the agreement with the mages obsolete, who can say?"

"Just pretend for a moment that I was considering this whole _assassination_ thing. So this is only hypothetical, right, no promises or even entertaining this ludicrous idea--"

"Of course, my friend."

"Are you saying I could _hire_ you, Zevran?"

There was a pause, and the elf hummed thoughtfully.

"I could be...convinced, perhaps. With a good enough plan."

"Sweet Andraste, you're offering to off the Magister? Just like that? Look, no offense, but I used to fight with you and I'm not sure the man is that easy to take down. He's a powerful mage."

"The Magister is a _man_." As Zevran slid off the table and circled by, he pressed a finger lightly on the back of his neck, tracing along Alistair's jawline. The former Templar blushed. "All it takes is a well-placed, well-timed cut and their lives are forfeit, no? A little stab to the kidneys here, perhaps a little poison in the drink..."

Alistair had noticed his own tankard had been right at the edge of the table as Zevran passed, and the thought was unnerving. Well, at least it was empty.

"And we have with us a man trained in the Templar arts, which is our insurance in case the plan goes awry."

"You mean you'd want me to go with you?"

"Of course. It's _your_ plan, is it not?"

"Huh. You think two of us would be sufficient?" Alistair had to laugh at the idea. Traipsing around in the Deep Roads with some very spirited dwarven veterans had proven that he still had some work to do with his endurance, and now Zevran seemed to be proposing taking down a castle full of mages.

"They _are_ intriguing odds," Zevran said with a good-natured laugh. "But to make the bet safer, Alistair, you may want to consider another addition or two."

"You have someone in mind...?"

"You are forgetting my lovely wife, for one."

" _Millagre?_ Are you mad? She's a Grey Warden, they have no business in a plot like this. Besides..." Alistair shook his head slowly. "She's not really an _assassin_ -y assassin."

The corner of Zevran's eyes wrinkled as he smiled at the thought. _Oh, Alistair, my friend. How clueless you are._ "It is true that I would prefer her to sit this one out," he admitted. "But you forget that my dear wife is a Crow in all but name. I trained her as my masters instructed me. Minus the torture, of course."

The Captain shook his head at the idea--again. "Dare I ask about the next person you have in mind? Let me guess--Nathaniel Howe?"

"I am uncertain how Nathaniel will feel about this...plot," Zevran said innocently, tossing his hair. "But I do know of an abomination who might not say _no_ to a do-over. What say you?"

_Maker's breath_ , what was Zevran's angle? What did he get out of this, and why was he suggesting putting himself and the Warden-Commander in danger? Not to mention why even consider the apostate, who had a criminal record as deep as the Waking Sea and whom Alistair could not be sure was still a man at all?

"This is probably a terrible idea. If this _very hypothetical_ plan goes awry, we'll all be dead. _Everyone_ , Zevran."

"I don't plan on dying," said the elf, leaning against one of the inner support beams and crossing his arms. "If you feel otherwise, I trust you to have the sense not to drag us down with you."

Alistair sighed. "I'll take that under advisement. But what do you want for a risk like that?"

"Coin would not go unappreciated--" He licked his lips and then smiled devishly at the thought. "--but is not what I desire."

"Then--?"

"I want full credit for assassinating the Magister."

" _So._.." Perplexion furrowed the Captain's brows, puckered his lips. "I can agree to vouch for you doing the deed, Zevran. I'm just...confused, honestly. What kind of payment is that? Or did you want some kind of parade thrown in your honor? You'd better watch out, or you might completely lose that ego of yours."

Zevran cackled. "Yes, you have me found out! A parade would be excellent, with banners and streamers and beautiful scantily-clad people. I wish for all the praise and adulation as can be afforded to me by the grateful citizens of Redcliffe."

"Funny." The former Warden tapped his finger on the table, expression slipping. "But that's not it at all, is it?"

"Ah? Alas, no."

"Are you going to tell me?"

The elf grinned cheekily. "Let us just say I wish for the infamy and leave it at that."

"Yes, well, I have no issue with your payment. But this assumes we are actually going to...to _do_ the thing. Which...I don't know, Zevran."

"Maybe I have forgotten myself yet again? No, I know I am here in Ferelden. I know that I am speaking to the man who would charge ogres and wanted nothing more than to march into Denerim and take Loghain's head. The man who would have been King of Ferelden had the situation been any different."

The elf had turned to walk the room, his eyes darting to the hidden, oft-overlooked areas, his back to Alistair now. His steps were slow, deliberate things, like a Chantry Brother walking the revered halls among the uninitiated.

"A King does not have just an army. A King would also have in his employ men such as myself, and by which I mean assassins, not courtesans."

Zevran reached out and righted a candle whose waxy form could now rightly be called globular rather than cylindrical. "You could have had those too, of course. I would not judge. But your assassins, your spies--would you simply let them be, fire them? No. Because your job would be to see to the country's best interest, not your own.

"A man who is unable to stomach necessary killing, and to see justice done, does not belong in such a position. You would be as a hambone thrown to a den of starved mabari."

Alistair tapped his fingers repetitively over the wood. He stopped--briefly. "You're referring to the Game. I've heard horror stories from Teagan."

"It's not just nobles, my friend. There are people in this world who would take everything you love and rip it from you."

Zevran Arainai spoke from experience. He made the statement so casually that Alistair almost felt sorry for his former comrade-in-arms. _Almost_.

"And sometimes you just need to kill those people. Or even better, kill them _first_. Do you disagree?"

"Not entirely." Alistair sighed. "You may be right. There are...exceptions...such as Rendon Howe. I do not relish the idea of having people executed even so. That's what we have a justice system for--that's why we have the Landsmeet. "

"Ah! Deferring to the other lords is another way to rule, how very true. And we all know how very impartial the Landsmeet is."

"You're mocking me, aren't you."

"Mm, not at all. But where is that dragon's blood I have heard so much about? These Fereldans make a big deal of it, but perhaps it has already been so diluted that it no longer qualifies?"

The man grit his teeth. The elf was not oblivious, but he pressed on, ignoring him.

"I suppose the question I pose to you is this: are you that rightful King Ferelden should have had? Or did Millagre know you that much better than the rest of us?"

Zevran could not help but throw that barb in there. The ex-Prince had a sore spot about the Landsmeet of 9:31  which declared Anora as rightful ruler of Ferelden. No doubt Alistair had been expecting to duel Loghain himself, but Millagre had stepped in and challenged the Hero of River Dane instead, to the surprise of many within their immediate group.

"Well, the hour is late," came Zevran's remark moments later. "The Wardens will expect my return shortly, no doubt."

"Wait."

Zevran, previously headed for the door, came to a halt. He twisted his head about, arching one long, golden eyebrow. "Hmm?"

"You said you need a plan before you sign on," Alistair heard himself say. "We already know an alternate route inside, and I am familiar with the Castle's layout. But I am out of my depth here, Zevran. Do you have any...suggestions?"

The elf grinned. "You must make sure you have your assassins first. I shall let my wife know to expect a visit, yes?"

* * *

Anders awoke from an uneasy sleep.

There were voices and ambient whisperings, shadows moving across his vision. Hazy phantoms drifting in and out of existence. At first he assumed he was still dreaming, trapped in the Fade, and that the demons were asking after him again. They never fully lost interest, not even when his body was housing another. Perhaps they would assume he would simply eject Justice, as though that were something mortals could do at will.

But it soon occurred to him that it was human voices he heard, quite near to him, coming in from just outside the clinic door. It was carefully eased open then, no longer muffling their words.

"Are you sure you don't need backup?"

"I will take care of him," said the Captain of Redcliffe. "Take a break, both of you." 

He heard the affirmative _Ser_ from both guardsmen and the sound of their retreat. He saw the lantern before he saw the man--the light was blinding to his rheum-encrusted eyes--and instinctively turned his head. When the door was closed firmly behind him a moment later, Anders was consciously aware that he was alone in the room with this one intruder. Alone with the man who had cut him down, had repeatedly called him an abomination in casual conversation.

Anders wanted to say he was not afraid, but that was a lie.

"I know you're awake," said the other. "I just saw you move."

The lantern was placed on his bedside table, just out of reach. Alistair was staring at him when he shifted his head, though Anders could detect a hint of genuine surprise there.

"Cat got your tongue?" he quipped.

It made sense. Nathaniel had told him that Justice had pre-empted all his encounters with the Captain. It explained why Anders had not remembered Alistair before now. The line of the Captain's lips became longer, harder, as he wordlessly reached to his belt instead.

He unsheathed a dagger. Redcliffe standard issue, forged from iron. It still carried its edge, as Alistair was a swordsman by trade, not a rogue, and it was bad practice to use lesser fighting blades for mundane tasks.

Alistair's boots thudded dully against the wood flooring as he approached the bedside, and the mage stiffened reactively.

"How much is your freedom worth to you?"

Anders glanced slowly from the knife and up to Alistair's face. He felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach, but he tried not to show it. He fought to suppress memories of past beatings at the hands of Templars. These circumstances were all too similar. Except he was in his clinic this time, on the far outskirts of Redcliffe, rather than a dark cell.

Justice raged inside his heart like a storm, demanding retribution for the Captain's ruining of the duel, and screaming threats for the assault Anders half-expected to happen.

The mage was too exhausted to heal himself, just a few more hours and then he could get to work on that gaping stomach wound--provided the cufflets were removed. Which was the crux of the issue, wasn't it?

Anders felt himself sink into resignation. He was entirely at the Captain's mercy. What could he do but thrash uselessly against his bindings and tear open his stitches? And no-one was there to hear him, help him. Not even the other guards. Not Nathaniel, not Millagre, and especially not Hawke.

The mage gave a weak, conciliatory smile. "...That depends on the asking price."

 

* * *

† _Zevran had not been present for Kinloch Hold or the Siege of Redcliffe. He had heard about these in great detail, however._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter was actually hard to write, though I suppose I wasn't entirely sure where I wanted it to go at first. Will probably need to edit it extensively once I've some fresh eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our four adventurers take part in an ill-conceived plan, and at least one of them made it through unscathed. But what really happened on that night in Redcliffe Castle?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my extended absence! The chapter is not as contained as I hoped it would be, and so there will be a part two. The whole concept made me giggle madly when I first thought of it, but in practice has proved somewhat more difficult to play out. So I apologize for the light absurdity of the thing in the first place.
> 
> TW: The wonders (or rather, horrors) of the female body are alluded to.

 

Redcliffe Castle was dark and largely unmanned, save for the odd Tevinter cultist. All the raw magic of the Fade was useless when the user was felled before it could be called upon. None were able to react.

After picking the lock, he slid easily into the bedroom. The fire was burning low in the hearth, and he blended seamlessly into the ambient shadows. The Magister was asleep in the Arl's bed, coiled as babes often slept, the height of Tevinter imperialism vulnerble to the edge of a knife. 

In this case, it was a blade of Antivan steel joined to a pommel of burnished stone, radiant and deadly. Reflected on its surface were the rapidly cooling embers within the fireplace, a metaphor for the life slumbering obliviously nearby. The assassin approached without hesitation, knowing well what was to be done, what _had_ to be done, though he would grant the mage a small mercy: a quick death. Ten, maybe fifteen, seconds of agony, and then Gereon Alexius would depart to greet the Maker.

It was going to be a simple cut-and-run. There should not have been any complications--

* * *

"But, alas, the mage's wards were well hidden. I was a fool to think it would have been so easy, and I knew my mistake the moment I hit the wall, stars in my eyes. Of course the Magister startled awake, and I missed my chance for a simple kill. It would not be so simple to escape the Castle now, and yet, here I am--"

Cassandra slammed her hands down upon the desk.

" _Bull_. _Shit_."

The woman pressed her palms further into the wood surface, leaning forward to stare intimidatingly into the eyes of the elf.

Zevran Arainai returned said stare, though he found himself studying her other features. The dark cropped hair, severe eyebrows which served only to augment her general disapproval.  There was a salient scar skimming the edge of her cheek which reminded him distinctly of his wife's own scars. There were many parallels which he could draw between the two from appearances alone. This woman was a warrior--a veteran--and radiated an air of competence.

"You entered the Castle _alone_? You killed a dozen Venatori _alone_? You did not take precautions against the mage, in spite of your experience with them, and just _happened_ to escape?"

"Who do you think you are talking to?" The assassin tilted his head back, eyes narrowed. "I don't mean to brag--well, maybe I _do_ , but I have killed many people."

The Seeker's lip curled in a snarl. "I was not born yesterday."

Such was how Cassandra Pentaghast found herself in one of the many small side rooms in Haven's chantry. This one had been designated as their Ambassador's office. Lady Montilyet was not present, as the current task at hand did not fall within her purview, but the Inquisition Spymaster found it very much within hers. Leliana had selected a perch near the door, not only to oversee the process but to watch for potential intrusions or escape attempts. Neither was very likely, but precautions had to be taken.

The Inquisition was thorough in vetting its candidates. _Especially_ candidates who would be working with sensitive information which could make or break their fledgling organization.

Right now, Zevran appeared to be the very sort of man Cassandra wanted to avoid recruiting. She did not have time for those who told such blatant, bold-faced lies, not while the Breach raged upon the mountain. She had had enough of this nonsense with Varric. 

"Gereon Alexius is now an agent of the Inquisition, and he has given us a factual account of the night in question. He was indeed struck by an assassin's blade that very night and was slated to die, and according to our report the assassin was a dwarf woman. The Grey Wardens were reported to have been in town just days before this event, so this is not impossible."

Cassandra stood augustly and read over her clipboard.

“According to your dossier, Zevran Arainai, you are legally married under Fereldan law to the Commander of the Grey. Since...9:33, it appears?" She cocked an eyebrow at this date, then looked up. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were covering for her."

"Were I a prominent Magister, I, too, would claim a near-assassination by the Hero of Ferelden. His influence may grant him the ability to persuade others of his truth, but that does not mean his words hold any semblance of it."

"Gereon Alexius is many things, Zevran." The Nightingale's voice was firm and composed. "But he does not appear to be a liar. We are simply asking you for your valuable perspective, as he may be withholding some details from us."

The elf twisted in his chair, lips curling. "Hah! I know your tactics. But tell me, Leliana. What value is there in such a tale? All that you need know, you have apparently gotten from that Magister sort, yes?"

"All we know is that the Commander of the Grey decided to personally involve herself in the events of this night," continued the Bard. "And that she now abstains from helping the Inquisition in this time of need. We personally requested the Hero of Ferelden, and she sent you in her place. I think you learned something that you are not sharing with us."

"Enough." Cassandra's voice carried a vibe of caution and warning to it. "You do not need to inform him of the nature of our investigation."

The man relaxed into the chair again, though his fingers tightened around the arm rest. "If I may be frank, you are lucky you have even **me**. My place is with the Wardens. But if it pleases you, my dear Leliana, I shall tell you of our misadventure. You always did enjoy stories."

* * *

 

Anders tapped the glowstone and held it aloft. Aside from the lantern borne by Millagre, this was the only other light source available, and the group of four was otherwise besieged by darkness. Their agenda was set and agreed upon, and they each dressed the part. There was no gleaming armor, no glittering helms; instead there were only dark leathers. Black was too stark a contrast to the colors of night, so Millagre was clad in earthen brown, and Zevran in his deep, faded blue--the same cloak Alistair had seen him thrown in when he fought the Pride demon. Alistair had dressed in a fitted leather cuirass, which he felt was better suited to practice fighting than actually engaging mages.

 _There is no armor on Thedas which can shield you, should you anger these Venatori_. Such had been Zevran's reassurance as they gathered in the Windmill. The elf had been almost gleeful about that, too. The implication was clear: _you will be unheard and unseen, or you will be dead_.

The apostate had not changed his usual robes, though he now a wore a sun-bleached black shawl as a hood. All this did was make Anders _appear_ more enigmatic, and infinitely more dangerous. Though Alistair decided he probably was more dangerous now, shawl or no. He had been uncertain about granting Anders any form of freedom, particularly as the mage was possessed and now had reason to abhor him. What was to stop the mage from killing him and fleeing?

Indeed, all that lay between Anders and Alistair's death was a flimsy threat and whatever thread of morality the abomination still clung to.

_The apostate clenched his teeth as the dagger was drawn across the underside of his arm. Electricity crackled about him, enticing Alistair's hairs to stand on end, yet ultimately swallowed by the enchanted bracers. The former Templar had emptied a vial of elfroot to collect the steady stream of blighted blood falling across the pale skin._

_Insurance_ , Alistair had told him coldly. He walked behind Anders now, staring at the back of his shawl-enwrapped head. _With instructions to be delivered personally to Ser Hadley in the event of my death. If you escape, every Templar in Ferelden will be on your heels_.

He still was not sure of his pledge to free Anders, however. What if this abomination could contribute to Redcliffe's restoration, if he could still be of some use in deposing the Magister as Alexius had deposed Teagan? Would he really let the man walk free?

 _We'll cross that bridge when it comes,_ thought Alistair tiredly.

They made their way through a winding passage leading into the dungeons of Castle Redcliffe. Its existence was not widely known, and it had not been used since the dead walked the streets over a decade prior. It imparted in both Alistair and Millagre a sense of deja vu, though neither voiced this sensation. They had been little more than acquaintances the first time, and rescuing Connor (and, by extension, Teagan) had been their first real test of mettle after Ostagar.

Now they were here yet again--and this time, to kill a man. 

* * *

 

When they entered Redcliffe's dungeons, they found them empty and silent. Anders raised the glowstone to reflect off the intricate network of cobwebs crossing and interconnecting on the ceiling. The four passed the ironwork of the prison cells, void of inhabitants. This was in and of itself unsurprising, owing to Teagan's preference for fair--if swift--justice.

Anders shrank, shoulders tensing, discomfited by the memory of having spent the night in this place. The Arl had quarantined him there to deliberate on his fate, whether to extradite him to Denerim or to hand him over to the Templars.  Anders had not been mistreated, exactly: the cell had been clean, and the Arl had not accidentally "forgotten" to give him regular meals. But no-one could ever quite erase the figurative stink of human desperation which pervaded the atmosphere.

The assassin spoke in a hushed whisper as they drew nearer to the dungeon's mouth. "I will do the initial reconnaissance. The three of you will await my return, and we shall go from there, yes?"

There was no argument, and one could argue that the offer was a brave one. Alistair had been certain to lay out what details he knew, one such detail being that Redcliffe Castle was home to a couple dozen Tevinter cultists. One false move, and the elf could be disintegrated into nothingness.   

The door to the dungeon, however, was locked. Zevran tested the handle gingerly and with as little noise as possible to make sure it was not simply rusted or jammed. The resident mage might have made short work of the impediment with a blast of magic, but such a feat would have alerted the whole castle. So the assassin waved his wife to the fore, gesticulating his request with nary a word.

Alistair had very nearly forgotten Millagre's more criminal talents. Indeed, his heart beat fiercely as the woman unwrapped an assortment of long metal picks she had been carrying on her belt. The act was second nature to her even now, years later. Alistair could not push aside how very wrong it felt to be breaking and entering, and ironically this thought almost mirrored the voice grumbling in Anders' mind.

She worked in silence for several minutes before the mechanism unlatched with a barely perceptible click. Zevran grinned gleefully as he stole a kiss from his favorite Warden. Millagre was in no hurry to part from him, but there was a job which needed doing. The Warden-Commander snuffed her lantern light, with the mage following suit, extinguishing all light from the room. The elf fondled the door, coiling his fingers upon the handle and pulling. It groaned softly as it swung open upon its hinges, yet Zevran pulled it only enough to allow his lithe body through.

And then he was gone, leaving the three unable to see even their hands before their faces. But they could certainly feel one another, and the Taint seemed somehow pronounced when all other senses were muted. While Zevran had heard only silence, the three remaining Wardens were left to suffer the incursion of the Calling's song, faint perhaps yet ubiquitous.

Anders began to grow anxious in the extended dark, feeling very nearly suffocated by it, when the door swung open again. Dim light fell upon them, drawing their outlines to one another. It took all three a moment to understand that Zevran was bent over with the weight of a human halfway on his back, and once Millagre had shut the door behind him, the elf let the Venatori crash down the steps.

The mage flared the glowstone briefly, observing the prone form. "This is going to be a theme, isn't it?" Anders sighed. "Poor blighter."

The Captain drew nearer, and it became obvious that the Venatori mage was dead. In one sudden, violent motion, Zevran had thrust his dagger up beneath the chin, cutting all the spongy, fleshy bits of the mage's mouth as the blade slid up and into the more delicate hollow of the human's skull. Though the assassin had long ago wiped his hands, the blood had stained the fissures of his skin and seeped into the cracks around his nailbed.

Even now, he had knelt to undress the corpse, which was still warm to the touch.

"What are you doing?" Alistair whispered.

"Keys?" Millagre shrugged.

"Clothes," answered Zevran. The Tevinter's cowl was mostly clean, with that trademark point and tip, the elf had noted. He tossed this at Anders' feet and continued until the body was stripped of all but its smalls. After a minute, the assassin noticed that the mage was unmoved from before, and so he pointed emphatically at the dead man's clothing now heaped unceremoniously at the apostate's feet. "For _you_ , my friend. To wear. _Now_."

The apostate turned the linens over in his hands. They had been well lived-in, which was an unpleasant consideration. Anders arched an eyebrow and glanced in Alistair's direction.

"How about it, serah? Would you like the honor of the first disguise?" 

Zevran pointed his dagger in the mage's direction. "Best that you wear it.  You are magically inclined, yes? It will be the least suspicious."

"Methinks this blood spot is awfully suspicious on its own, without my assistance."

Anders seemed to be dragging his feet on the matter. True, there had been some minor staining of the garment, but Zevran figured that the mage could make it work. " _Amor_ ," he said of Millagre then, "assist your friend with his clothing."

"They will probably notice the pasty white man with a distinctly Fereldan accent, but _okay_. No need to get handsy."

The dwarf woman jabbed her thumb in the direction of one of the jail cells. "Changing room right there."

"Thank you."

Alistair inhaled softly. How alien a feeling it was to be standing about in the dark, holding natural conversation as a freshly bled corpse lay at their feet, all of them ready to strike out on their macabre mission. He had never thought to find himself again with such a group: his ex, now Hero of Ferelden; an assassin who was narrowly spared by, and was later married to, his ex; and perhaps the most hated apostate in Thedas.

The whole picture seemed to suggest unreality, and he would not have been surprised to wake up and find that he was rather in the Fade all along. Subtly, the man gathered a pinch of skin and squeezed. The sensation was hard and sharp, and as Alistair released his hold, felt the sensation ebb away.

 _Andraste help us, we are actually doing this thing._ He exhaled, then closed his eyes.

* * *

A flight of stairs ascended beyond them.

They communicated solely in hand signals, though the subject matter of their argument was easy enough to ascertain. The likeliest location for the Magister was to be in the royal wing, particularly at that hour of the night. It was with this assumption that Zevran wished to abscond to the bedrooms in search of their mark. He wished to split up, a fact which Millagre understood logically, as stealth was inversely proportional to the number of persons present. Her intuition suggested that parting was unwise. But had they not all known the risks?

The couple were attempting to divvy up the group in a fair manner, which meant pairing off. It was accurate to say that both Alistair and Anders were, as individuals, capable in battle. Together, however, their team dynamic suffered. One might argue it had not truly been tested, but the mage was resoundingly chilly towards Alistair on that particular evening.

Alistair was struck by the uncomfortable feeling that he was being bargained for--or even more likely, _against_. He mouthed the words _Hurry it up, will you?_

The Warden-Commander held her palms up to him: _Stay out of this, Alistair_ , this seemed to suggest. Her attention whipped immediately back to the assassin, who gestured to Alistair. Zevran then touched his forehead with the tip of his pinkie finger, then pulled his hand up and out into the air. He then indicated himself, and made a rather gratuitous display of cutting an imaginary person's throat.

 _It was Alistair's idea. He and I should be the ones to execute this plan_.

Both rogues felt the pressure of time, and after a moment's pause, Millagre fell into line with their mage in disguise. She nodded her goodbye to them. The dwarf had slipped her hand about Anders' elbow and tugged him away into the corridor until they melted into darkness. Zevran drew his hood over his magnificent blond hair and watched their departure, as did Alistair. Yet the latter had studied more the placement of her hand.

The body held its own memories, separate from his mind. He felt a phantom hand around his own elbow, and a chill radiated out from the center. Alistair shivered as he attempted to suppress the sensation.

He turned to his cloaked elven companion. "Let's go."

* * *

The passageway was almost vacant. What was at first a blessing became rather worrisome. It was silent such that Alistair could hear very little but the song pulsing in his brain. The farther they traveled, the fainter became the presence of blighted blood. Once in a while, Zevran would gesture some command to him, either to soften his footfalls or to halt so that the assassin could listen for clues.

The environment was ill-lit, perfect for unlawful sneaking. One sconce was rhythmically dripping wax into a congealing puddle on the floor where they stopped next. Alistair watched as the the candle flame wavered, its continued existence uncertain. They would soon be in the vicinity of Teagan's bedroom, and with luck they would find their target. If the Maker blessed their mission, perhaps the Magister would even be asleep. That would make it easier--physically, at least.

Before they rounded a corner, Zevran pressed his back against the stone wall and carefully gave a peek. The teal-and-gold carpet muffled the steps of a Venatori agent headed in their direction. The elf signalled Alistair that they hide, the former crouching beneath a decorative trestle table and the latter behind a potted plant. The latter was not well-hidden at all, but there was no time for regrets.

A pointed cowl obscured the mage's face as he came within sight, about to turn--yet he did not, eyes drawn for a fraction of a second to the candle as it caught the current of air made by the mage's passage and fell into darkness.

The hands of death fell swiftly upon the mage: one gloved hand over the mouth and nose, the other swiftly drawing a blade across the neck. Alistair saw no evidence of hesitation from Zevran, though when he saw the mage visibly spark and begin to melt and shift, amorphous and ghastly, he feared for the assassin's life.

In those desperate seconds, the mage had succumbed to fear and opened his mind to the demons of the Fade. Though this act did little to stem the copious blood loss, the seconds were enough to cause great harm to his attackers. A great shield of fire erupted around its form, forcing the assassin to leap away. In that instant, a second blade was drawn, and Alistair unsheathed his sword with an audible scrape.

The carpet beneath the abomination burned away in a nearly perfect circle, furling into blackness and crumbling to ash, as did the majority of its robes. The abomination turned in a violent sweep, staring down Alistair and Zevran with great black hollows for eyes, the laceration on the creature's neck framed by a cravat of charred, black blood.

"Run forward, my friend. I will distract it."

With unsurpassed celerity, Zevran leapt aside and flanked the demon-possessed vessel, and with a flurry of movement began to strike repeatedly and violently in the vulnerable areas of the human body. Alistair did not think running would provide much of an advantage, but he trusted Zevran's order and raced down the hallway with no thought for noise. The Captain jammed his shoulder into the first, throwing it open, but not before hearing a strangled cry.

Alistair jerked his head back to see what had transpired, but only saw Zevran staggering backwards and covering himself with his now shredded cloak. The elf turned and escaped into the same room as Alistair, and both of them fell back upon the door. Zevran fumbled with the lock, seeking to bar the abomination's passage, though both knew that a few inches of wood would scarce serve as a proper barrier.

They were eclipsed completely in darkness save for a sliver of moonlight from the room's only window, and the Captain assumed that Zevran's clumsiness arose from an inability to see. He brushed the elf's hands aside and latched the door for him, as flames licked through the crack between the stone and the wood.

"That won't hold him for long," said Alistair warily. "We should be prepared to fight when it breaks through." He rooted around in his pocket, searching for something. Soon he found the object of his desire, and brought it out in the palm of his hand. He unfolded his fingers to stare down at a small vial emanating a soft blue glow.

Calloused fingers brushed against his palm. Alistair could feel the firmness of Zevran's touch as he closed the former Templar's fingers and spoke, whisper-soft. "That is more potent a poison than that which I just used. Save your last resort, yes?"

Alistair flushed, embarrassed by the sentiment, and was glad for the darkness of the room. "Wait--poison?"

"Indeed," sighed the elf. "I was saving it for the Magister, but alas, it was not to be. We will simply have to use our creativity when the time comes. Or, well, another poison. I have several more."

Zevran pulled away, and Alistair caught the distinct scent of burnt hair. "Zevran--" He saw the assassin silhouetted when he moved below the window, appearing as a white halo around a black form. "Are you all right?"

"Well enough, my dear Alistair. We should focus on leaving this room as expediently as is possible."

The Captain wandered over blindly to the desk, night vision readjusting as the abomination tore at the doorway, likely digging vast grooves into the impediment on its opposite side. It would easily splinter the door in the next several seconds--but it did not. An angry abominable shriek was heard, faint and dying just beyond the door.

* * *

Standing in the hallway with his staff raised aloft stood Dorian Pavus, staring in disbelief at the naked abomination clawing its way pathetically along the stone, convulsing intermittently. He could hear it whispering promises of glory and forbidden magic into his mind, and no doubt into Felix's mind, desperate to escape the confines of its mortal vessel.

Then it died, collapsing into a heap of mutated, twisted, and charred flesh. Thick was the stench of cooked meat. 

"What in the devil happened here?" cried Dorian, pressing a handkerchief against his nose. "Abominations don't just fall over _dead_."

"But why was he possessed in the first place?" Felix's startled heart hammered in his chest. "A binding misperformed?"

"We'll probably never know," said his gloriously mustached companion. "I would be surprised if no-one else heard this commotion, however."

With some level of trepidation, masked by his desire to protect Felix and to appear brave, Dorian approached the abomination's vessel and prodded him remotely via staff. No movement. Then he noticed the flood of firelight from beneath the door.

* * *

"Turn that off," hissed Zevran, snake-like, as Alistair stared at him by the light of the lantern.

A multitude of small pink pustules dotted the assassin's eyelids and the creases about his eyes, though his sight seemed otherwise unaffected. A patch of his glorious blond hair had crackled and shriveled into tiny brittle rivulets, no doubt the area closest to where he had been struck by the abomination's burning claw.

"You're hurt." Alistair's knack for stating the obvious had been the cause of much eye-rolling in the past, but just now it was tongue-bitingly annoying.

"Minimally," insisted the assassin.

Someone attempted to open the door, causing Alistair to freeze. When it did not budge, that same someone beat on the other side of the door.

 _Salve, estne aliquis_?

Zevran had known Taliesen long enough to know at least the basics of Tevene. He eyed the window above them. It was a sizeable aperture, enough to have allowed a man ingress were it not blocked by a decorative crossbar. He climbed onto the trestle table beneath, extending his fingers so that they might reach the angled window sill. His height was an obstacle, and so Zevran leapt with all the agility, grace, and power he could muster.

His fingers grabbed upon the ledge, and painstakingly Zevran hoisted himself up, slotting himself into the window's frame and peering out into the dark of night. Winter kissed his cheeks with her cold, bone-chilling lips, though his burns welcomed the slight reprieve.  He glanced back down at Alistair questioningly as someone knocked again at the door.

_Oh, for the sake of... Look, I know someone is hiding in there. Your demon friend is dead. How about you come out and we discuss this like civilized gentlepersons?_

When he was unable to squeeze his torso through, the elf seized one edge of the muntins and began to kick at the weakest area he could identify. Redcliffe Castle had stood for ages, and Zevran hoped that that the ephemeral nature of wood would prove fortuitous. One kick, then two, then three: the beam was sturdy and had been built to last, and he could feel the uncomfortable shock running up his leg.

Then, with one final thrash, the grille snapped apart. Zevran very nearly tumbled out but managed to catch himself before dashing himself apart the rocky ground below. 

The assassin, crouched down, beckoned towards Alistair to follow. Hesitant, the man began to shift towards the window when the door exploded in a flash of fire and light. Alistair dropped the lantern with a crinkle of glass and retreated back against the sole wardrobe in the guestroom, startled half to death.  
  
As he waved away the smoke, Dorian saw a blur of movement and shadow from within. Perhaps the movement was a trick of his imagination? The mage tapped the end of his staff so that it projected a soft light, then strode inside. His eyes struggled to adjust as they glanced upward towards where the movement had been. The night sky was indigo except where the sliver of moon hung in its eternal vigil. 

Alistair held his breath and summoned his courage. He downed the entirety of the lyrium potiun, feeling the familiar tingle, sensing the power seeping into his veins and traveling all throughout his body.

Once the mage drew nearer to the window and his boot crunched on the glass of the lantern, the Captain launched himself and his steel at the unsuspecting Tevinter.

Dorian was late in reacting to the attack, for even as he erected his barrier, it crumbled beneath the Templar's sword. Luckily he had not relied simply on magic, for Dorian endeavored to dodge as well as he could, tripping over a chair in the process. He landed with a great crash of furniture, though an outside presence now sustained a separate barrier over him. Felix Alexius stood at the doorway, eyes wrinkled in concentration.

Alistair yelled his fist and summoned a power not entirely like the mages': a great plume burst through the room, sapping their mana and reducing the efficacy of their enchantments. The barrier crackled around the beleaguered Tevinter.

" _Fasta Vass_ ," Dorian swore. "A Templar!"

When the steel crashed down against barrier, it burst through, and the excess mana seemed to flow in through the sword as though it were a type of conductor. The mage summoned his might and threw a massive fireball at the Captain; the flames ricocheted against the stone, immolating every thing inside the interior: the bed, its linens, the wooden desk, and to some extent, Felix himself--but when the magic dissipated, Alistair was still standing, arms folded protectively in front of him, his skin aglow with lyrium.

The residual flames, which had completely ignited the bed and were now filling the chambers with oily black smoke, lit Alistair's face. Felix's breath hitched when he recognized the face of their intruder.

"It's--you're Captain Alistair!" he declared, in awe of his discovery.

"You must be kidding!" Dorian huffed as he climbed to his feet, heaving a grand breath. "You're not doing a good job protecting the public, you know."

The blond's hand merely tightened about the hilt of his sword. "Oh, be quiet. I don't need a lecture."

Felix stepped forwardly deliberately, showing his palms in a conciliatory gesture. "This doesn't have to end in more death. Lower your weapon."

"I like my sword where it is, thank you. In case you've forgotten, you mages can just make things go _boom_ with your fingers."

Perhaps this would work to his advantage. Millagre had always been slightly better at bluffing than he, and Zevran better than the both of them together, but Alistair liked to believe he had improved since those early days. If he stalled these two, he would buy Zevran time and avert suspicion away from the others.

"I understand your hesitation," said the Magister's son. "Will you allow me to at least put that fire out?"

"If that's _all_ you plan to do."

Felix Alexius touched the Fade as he drew out a single skein of magic and wove it into a blanket of frost, which fell upon the flames, smothering them. The magical fire resisted but eventually succumbed, and the air was now much cooler, more resembling a proper Fereldan winter.

Meanwhile, Dorian clapped the head of his staff with his hand and illuminated the room with an unforgiving white light. Alistair started at this, then stilled when he realized neither had made a hostile movement towards him. He relaxed his sword grip, but not his guard.

The three exchanged quizzical and suspicious glances among themselves before Alistair spoke.

"Well, thank you both for that timely intervention. Now, er, if you don't mind, I'm going to show myself to the door--"

He sidled towards the exit, slowly so as to gauge their reaction, though Dorian gave no indication that he was about to let him pass. Rather, he arched one well-trimmed eyebrow and.

"Oh, pardon _me_ , Ser Templar, I seem to be standing between you and Freedom. You will just have to remain there while Felix and I ask you a few questions."

The young Alexius tapped his fingers against his staff, pondering. He had rather not be dealing with this situation. After all, they had precious few moments to gain insight into the Venatori's plan as it was and Dorian's presence was supposed to be a secret. He was also not keen on this confrontation growing violent, not with this swordsman irradiating that lyrium glow, not while he was...less than his best.

"Captain Alistair, what are you doing here?"

The more sarcastic Tevinter clucked his tongue. "My first question would have been, How _did_ you get in? But do carry on."

Now under duress, he felt tongue-tied. _Oh Maker_ , he thought. The truth was not a suitable one, given that Felix Alexius would not relish the idea of his father being brutally murdered--or humanely murdered, depending on how one defined such terms and how one evaluated the various methods that Zevran would likely employ.

"You--you took over my uncle's Castle. Surely you realize that."

"And so you decided to storm said Castle and stab a few people?" sassed the second mage.

"I did not plan on stabbing anyone at all," Alistair lied--though it felt like the truth. Killing the Magister was still an abstract to him even though he had slain people before. He just did not make a habit of breaking into houses in order to do so. **And** they were usually bad people. Which he supposed the Magister was, sort of, in a way.

Felix pressed him. "Answer the question."

"Because Tevinter walked right into the heart of Ferelden!" he cried. "A man I once knew was obsessed with this idea that Orlais would come to take us over again any moment. He was sort of insane about it. Back then, I only ever worried about the Darkspawn--but there was a truth in those fears. That's how the great Empires started, right? Taking over littler people, like Ferelden. And we're sore, and we're hurting, from the Blight. From this whole Mage-Templar War. The civil war at the borders, the refugees pouring in."

Suddenly, the grandstanding felt natural. For the first time in weeks, he had a captive audience and they were listening to him intently. He put out of his mind for a moment the fact that Zevran had likely left his fate to Chance in order to rendezvous with the rest of their team and to carry out their mission proper.

"Now's the perfect time for the serpent to strike--er, figuratively, though I suppose that works literally too. You've drafted all our mages from all our Circles, and you've taken over the most defensible fortress we have in Ferelden, _and_ you're all a bunch pro-Tevinter cultists. Teagan's marching part of Anora's army here as we speak. Tevinter could attempt to rain fire down on Denerim while all this is going on. So that's why I'm here--for answers. And so Andraste help me, I will get them one way or another. "

"You came to spy on the Venatori, then?" asked Felix incredulously. " _By yourself_?"

"He didn't come here alone." Dorian tilted his head towards the window, whose broken crossbeam was clear in the pseudo-daylight. "I saw something at the window when I entered."

Alistair scoffed, but internally he panicked. "Look, I was trying to escape from the window. There was an abomination clawing at the door."

"No offense, but could you even fit up there?"

This was a valid point. Alistair thought he would have been able to, but the extra girth around his mid-section (which the journey from Orzammar had helped tame somewhat) and the atrophying of his upper body strength hindered his ability to easily climb up through said window.

"Are you saying I'm _hefty_?" Alistair bit his bottom lip. "Again, as I said, abomination at the door.  And then there was you. I was out of options, all right?"

Dorian regarded him skeptically.

Felix merely paused. "We are looking for answers too, Captain."

"Oh, is that so?"

"About the Venatori," the mage returned. "What their goals are, what they're planning. Just like you."

It was Alistair's turn to pause, and he realized then that these two were not Venatori as he had assumed. After all, Felix Alexius was the Magister's son and by extension should have been sympathetic to his aims. Yet this had been an assumption, proving once again it was not right to judge others by their kin.

Of course, this mage could have been lying through his teeth, much in the way Alistair was withholding that one tiny, yet crucial detail from these two.

 _There is an assassin actively looking for your father_.

 But he wagered that Felix was being true. Alistair could sense no duplicity in the Tevinter, in spite of what he would have liked to believe.

"Didn't you get some kind of pamphlet when you joined? You know, with their mission statement and all."

"We aren't Venatori."

"That was _sarcasm_ , Felix." Dorian pressed his lips together in distaste. "Oh, most of the Venatori are fervent believers in Tevinter supremacy--we know this much. But why these particular actions, and for what purpose? We are as in the dark as you, good ser.  Which means your questions will have to remain unanswered for the time being."

"You don't know, and that's supposed to be good enough, is it?" Alistair demanded. "Leave with my tail between my legs?"

"It would be an incredible mercy to let you go at all," countered the prominently mustached mage. "You--" And he pointed a finger from the Captain to the ashen remains of the abomination. "--broke in here, and slew my countryman. Now, I did not know the fellow personally, but that was hardly an overture of peace."

"Stop it, Dorian."

"Stop what? Look--" The older of the two sidled closer, then leaned in close to the other's ear. "We are running out of time. Whatever we decide to do, we must do it posthaste."

Felix thought, running a hand over the dark fuzz upon his head. What looked to be a cropped hairstyle to most was actually a symptom of the Blight's ravaging of his being. His hair no longer grew in, and so he had embraced this as best he could. It was a potent reminder of his condition when the fatigue was not sapping his strength.

"I can't believe I did not notice it before," remarked Alistair suddenly. The Tevinter froze; had the the Captain read his thoughts? "You are carrying the taint in your blood. How?"

Felix deliberated on answering his query, but ultimately ignored it. His eyes were sharp then, determined. Time was running out, and not just their window for searching for the truth--but for him, his _life_.

It had taken this bodily poison for him to realize just how precious a commodity time-- _life_ \--was. And with that reminder, his decision was made.

"I'm assuming you came in from a hidden passage known only to the Arl of Redcliffe and his closest confidantes. Deliver us to where you entered the Castle--your location of entry."

"What?" The blond gawked as though Felix had grown two heads. "I'm not about to show you how I got in. That's why it's called a _secret passage_."

"There," continued the mage, "you will exit the premises and lay to rest your crusade. We will then seal this passage so that no more may pass through. No-one need know about this, or the matter of the man whose life you took. It will be on your conscience, and yours alone."

Silence followed, and the man's fellow magic-adept gaped. "Are we suddenly friends now? Did we just forget that he _tried to kill me_?"

"I have not forgotten. Think about it; the Captain is doing exactly what we are doing. Trying to discover the Truth. There is no way to know for certain that he acted in self-defense when he killed that man. But I do not particularly wish to fight someone who is a former Templar, particularly someone who was a hero of the Blight."

The Blighted gazed calmly upon Alistair then, his demeanor disarming. "The offer also extends to any friends you came with tonight."

Alistair answered so softly that he might not have been heard had the room not been in a state of abject noiselessness.

"I already told you: I came here alone."

* * *

"You are saying the Guard Captain went to show them, _of his own will_ , your escape route? Even when this is likely one of the few such paths which exist to carry the Arl and his men to safety?"

Zevran tried to read Leliana's expression, but it was unreadable. Not like Cassandra's, whose eyebrows conducted their own symphony. She seemed to think him a liar even when he was telling the truth. _Her loss_.

 "How can anyone truly understand the inner workings of Alistair's mind? He...exercises questionable judgment sometimes."

"The entire operation was an exercise in questionable judgment."

"Ah, but that is your opinion. Which..." And he sighed wistfully for effect as he laid his cheek mournfully upon his palm. "...you are certainly entitled to hold, mistaken though it may be."

The Seeker scoffed, arms clamped ever firmly across her chest. "And how were you even able to overhear this conversation? You had escaped."

"Would you believe that I never truly left? No? Well, believe it, my dear. For as much as I might say otherwise, I do not wish harm upon Alistair. He is my friend and comrade. I simply waited in the wings for my cue."

"We already know how this ends. Felix Alexius and _Dorian_ \--" The Seeker wrinkled her nose as she said his name, for it was news to her indeed that Dorian was involved, though not altogether surprising. "They were not killed in the events that night."

"That was very nearly not the case." Zevran ran a finger along his lip. "I did, in fact, attempt to kill Gereon, Jr. Curiously, the Blight did very little to slow him down."

Cassandra merely stared at the elf, and Zevran returned her expression with a wry smile. Since the moment he had opened his mouth, Zevran Arainai had been making an airtight case as to why the Inquisition should _not_ hire him. A past and hostile association with the Crows, enemies everywhere, botched jobs and narrow escape attempts, with his one redeeming quality being that he was married to the Hero of Ferelden. Leliana had assured him of his competence, yet the Nightingale appeared mildly embarrassed in his stead.

"Why would you attack him at all?" the Seeker pressed. "Was he not intending to release Alistair?"

"Oh, he was. But there was a...complication."

* * *

_Bodies_.

Felix's blood ran cold when he saw them, littering the stones, strewn roughly as though they were little more than ragdolls. They came as a surprise to Alistair as well, though before he had even opened his mouth in protest, Dorian Pavus struck him in the back with a spell. The blast was dissipated by the former Templar, who then drew his steel with a chilling scrape--

\--only to be instantly incapacitated by a blast from Felix.

Captain Alistair crumpled onto one of the Venatori corpses, but neither mage let their guard down. To do otherwise would have been foolish.

"A trap?" murmured Alexius the Younger. "Is someone lying in wait for us?"

"Or is this simply where he threw the bodies of our deluded countrymen when he killed them all?" Dorian's eyes grew dark as he cast his light about the dungeon. Reluctantly he stepped forward, reverently bypassing the haphazard limbs of the dead. If anyone was hiding within, there would be no shadows to cloak them.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he found the original Venatori--a man with a wound blossomed from beneath his jaw, stripped completely naked. He had been stashed within one of the cells, out of sight. It was odd, considering the others had not been shown the same care.

 _Naked_.  Dorian narrowed his eyes, then glanced over his shoulder. Felix was now crouched down at the Captain's side, feeling for his pulse. Blasts such as those could have killed a lesser man untrained in Templar arts.

"It would appear he is not working alone."

"What do you mean?"

The mage grit his teeth. "Because whoever it is is posing as a Venatori agent. They've taken the robes and everything."

"Is it possible he donned and then discarded them?"

"Possible, yes, but why would he discard them? I certainly **hope** we're dealing with the one psychopath, but I fear that may not be the case. " Dorian turned on his heel and strode back with purpose. "Search him, maybe there's a clue."

A brief pat-down later, and Felix had found a vial tucked securely into Alistair's personal  satchel. It was red with blood, with a faint glimmer indicating that it had been enchanted by lyrium. They were rare in the Imperium but not unheard of, and both mages knew exactly what the item in question was.

"A _phylactery_?" Dorian appeared incensed. "Did he never give up on his Templar loyalties? More importantly, _whose_ is it?"

"I don't know." Felix brushed it with his fingers, activating the enchantment. He then held it before him, changing its position before him, beholding where it was brightest. "Whoever it is, they are very close."

* * *

 

Anders hid in plain sight.

In some respects he would have preferred to go about this the old-fashioned way, which meant hiding and dashing quickly from hiding place A to hiding place B. This was the way he had always operated, with varying levels of success, particularly when traveling in Kirkwall to and from his clinic.

This was also the method Hawke employed. With Hawke, however, such "stealth" was a temporary measure and nearly always ended with a magically produced flashbang and clobbering someone over the head. 

But this mission was different, for it required stealth in perpetuity.

The matter was complicated further by the fact that his companion did not possess that same freedom. Millagre kept to the shadows, to the nooks and crannies of the old Castle, yet moving with the grace one might associate only with highly practiced warriors. That she was also harboring a second life was not wholly evident—and added only to his wonderment. 

They kept roughly in the vicinity of the basement entrance and the passageway leading to the bedrooms in the event that Alistair and Zevran should reappear, but there was no sign of them. There was also no sign of any Venatori raising the alarm, so neither was concerned for the time being.

Anders kept his head tilted downward as two Venatori mages passed him by, and he could not help but be astounded that no-one seemed to pay attention to him.

Until one stopped abruptly in front of him, speaking Tevene with a quick, native tongue. Anders' brain rushed to interpret what might have just been said.

_Something something Magister something library something Ancient One something outside?_

Anders scrunched his nose in thought, channeling his personal muse for all things Tevinter: Fenris, the (rather permanently) escaped slave. The mage could recall some volatile days in which that gravelly tone would lave his eardrums with wave after wave of foreign invective.   

" _Quid_?" he murmured.

" _Audītisne?_ " The Venatori mage lifted his head, looking impatient. When he repeated his request, Anders was able to construe several more words, but it was Justice's voice which helped him parse together the entire phrase.

_Could you go to the library to inform the Magister it is time for the Ancient One's convocation outside?_

Anders blinked. "Certē," he replied.

The mage opposite him nodded, then swept by in a hurry, brushing past without having seen Millagre, whose body was pressed into the stone. She eyed him quizzically, then ushered him over.

"You know _Tevene_?" she whispered. "What were they saying?"

Anders relayed the cryptic message to her. "The Magister's in the library. I don't know where that is."

"Not far." Millagre felt along the wall as he peeked about the corner, looking for evidence of any who might be listening in, or likely to walk their way. Unfortunately, the path was well-lit and obstructed by multiple Tevinters in uniform. There were few hiding places, save for various apertures leading into other rooms. "Down this way. Last door on the left."

"I doubt you'll be able to get close."

"Don't worry about that. Just get me close enough. Third door on the right should be a storage closet. I'll duck inside."

"And how do you know this?"

Millagre shrugged. "I've been here quite a bit. Now, lead the way."

With the absence of hiding places, the dwarf woman elected to use him. Anders could feel her palm against the small of his back gently urging him forward. He tried to ease into a comfortable, casual pace for both of them. At the far end of the hallway, two Venatori were engaged in conversation with each other; another was relighting the sconces which had burned out.

When they were scarcely beyond the first door on their right, it suddenly opened on them. Anders felt dread all down his spine as the Tevinter came face-to-face with the petite dwarf woman. Had she been hidden in shadow, Millagre might have frozen and hoped that a lesser observant individual might look past her. But there was no mistaking where his eyes now lay.

"Who--"

Millagre speared him in the neck with her hand, and the Tevinter fell head-first against the door with a _bang._ Wasting no time, she thrust both hands beneath his arms and dragged him forward into the open quarters. It was a washroom, and the smell of urine was sharp and pungent, suggesting recent use of the facilities. There was nowhere to hide the man, except perhaps behind the chamberpot. Once she had managed to situate him there, she felt his neck for a pulse.

There was none to be had. _I killed the poor sod_.

Anders closed the door behind them, breath in his throat. The other Tevinters had heard the commotion, and the sconce-lighter hopped off his stepstool to investigate. They heard a knocking moments later, and a concerned Tevinter asking after their welfare.

 _Say something_ , Millagre mouthed to him.

When the Venatori mage tried the doorknob, Anders held it firm. " _Everything is fine, thanks_ ," he tried in Tevene. The other voice paused, then asked after someone named Livius, who had just been in there.

Anders exchanged a questioning look with Millagre. The dwarf woman stood, then crept up to the side of the door, pressing her back against the wall so that she would be on the Tevinter's blind side.

_"Open it, and stand back."_

Anders released the door knob, then stood back as the sconce-lighter tentatively opened the door. The Tevinter held up a glowstone to glimpse Anders' face, which was still partway hidden beneath the pointed hood he wore.

" _Who are you_?" demanded theTevinter.

"Frederick?" tried Anders innocently. How Fereldan it sounded, even after all his years in the Free Marches!

As the Tevinter brandished his staff, the dwarf kicked the man's knee inward, sending him to the floor. She had straddled him within an eyeblink, her fingers entwined within the mage's strands of hair, gripping and pulling as she slammed his head into the floor. He jerked violently in response, not quite unconscious.

So she did it again.

Anders stared as the form went limp, and instinctively he knelt to heal the Venatori. With the brush of his fingers, could feel the last threads of life unraveling before him. He could detect no life from the other form now, even from this distance. Millagre Stonecipher had not drawn her blades, and already two men lay dead, or dying.

Anders hardened his heart as he watched the man before him stop breathing. The mage fought his instincts, and stayed his hand.

Surprisingly, Justice was quiet.

"Do we have to go around killing everyone?" He watched the Warden in the dimness as she crept to the door, hyper vigilant and likely already thinking about their end goal. She briefly checked over her shoulder, and he could see clearly the outline of her dwarven nose as well as the darkened gleam reflecting off the amber of her eyes.

"It will be up to you to kill the Magister. After that, no-one need die."

"Up to me?" Anders repeated.

"He's in the library, right? I'll lead them away, and leave it open for you. Finish what you started."  
Millagre sauntered up to him, then laid a hand upon his shoulder. It was not a natural position for her due to their relative height, but then she smiled. Some force in him churned, though he could hardly describe what it was. Unbidden he put a hand atop hers.

"Now play dead."

She pressed him to the floor. The thought of lying on _that_ particular floor was unsavory, but these were not his usual clothes and so Anders acquiesced. Then she bolted from the room, back in the direction of the dungeon. Anders watched her from his prone position, through the obscurity of his eyelashes, as the Venatori called out after her. Only briefly did they pause at the washroom to see three of their own--him included--before leaving in pursuit.

* * *

 

There was no plan. She would improvise as she always did, run until she spotted an opportunity. Though her feet were nimble and her heart courageous, Millagre was being tailed by. She narrowly avoided a blast of light off to her side, but the second spell struck true.

The first mage was adept in the school of entropy, and while the spell did not necessarily incapacitate, the disorientation of a target's mind made it more difficult for their enemy to flee or fight back. She smiled beneath the lip of her hood when she saw the dwarf stumble on the edge of carpet.

Millagre ducked to avoid a fireball, but her newfound gift of vertigo was almost painful. Mentally, she reassured herself that the hex was a temporary one and debated on where to go. There were precious few seconds to make the decision. The dungeons might be a dangerous choice, as they eventually ended--but the constricted, twisting space might allow more chances to avoid spells.

 _You will be unheard and unseen, or you will be dead_.

In her ears lingered the traces of her husband's voice and its familiar warning. It was unnecessary based on her experiences alone, from darkspawn emissaries to Antivan crows.

Once they even tracked a blood mage through the slums of Antiva City. Only in retrospect did it occur to her how close both she and Zevran had been to death, a notion which shook Millagre to the core. Had the blood mage sought to die in a blaze of glory, then it is possible that none of them would have survived that night, years ago.

As the dwarf Warden rounded a corner, everything changed. The Castle environment was familiar, but the hallway twisted off in another direction she could not recognize. When she turned around, Millagre could not recognize any parts of Redcliffe Castle, as though she were suddenly walking through an undiscovered wing.

_Impossible. I just came through here._

Wisps collected overhead, tracing her movements, and Millagre swallowed as she allowed herself to glance backward. There were a half dozen humanoid shadows watching her with yellow eyes, levitating above the stone, and she could not tell if they were real. The dwarf woman choked down another breath and ran in her previously intended direction.

Hope carried her along. She would see this mission through as she had all the previous ones: the attacks on Vigil's Keep, Darkspawn raids, the various Deep Roads campaigns, and countless others.

Then she felt a peculiar wetness, originating around the nethers. At first she assumed it to be sweat, the natural result of physical effort, friction, and lack of air flow. But then its copiousness could not be denied as she felt it, percolating through the fabric and blotting the leathers of her thighs. The smell hit her next, for her sense was sharper than usual: faintly metallic, of iron and stone. Suddenly the odor was cloying, and summoned memories of dozens of other faint, associated visions: bodies strewn about on the battlefield, the Archdemon's teeth perforating a guardsman's body as Ser Barksalot might a chew toy--

 _Blood_.

A shiver of horror coursed through her veins, and in the dimness of the night Millagre cast a gaze downward, seeing it blooming down all along the fabric.

Whatever confidence she possessed dissolved like a smoke ring into the sky. The blood began to drip down onto the floor when she slowed, albeit briefly. She reached down, and examined her findings: the crimson coated her fingertips. Panic gripped her, sent her mind spinning. It was as though she had abandoned any thought towards her pursuers--

_No! No, no, no! Not again!_

A moment of hesitation later, she was struck in the back by an unrelenting force and subsequently paralyzed. Millagre endeavored to move, but she could not. Her lungs quivered as they attempted to expel air, but were ultimately prohibited.

The shadows approached her in all directions, and they were laughing above the Calling. Her lifeblood kept pouring down, and her body had begun to ache all over, sapping her of strength. She was much like a fish, suspended in the air in an invisible net--helpless and suffocating--while the spear point came nearer.

Then a cascade of cacophonous lightning rained down upon the shadows. The display illuminated the hall, and she could feel the electricity buzzing, dissipating into the air around her.

The wisps, restless and unconcerned about the goings on below, wandered off to explore Redcliffe Castle. Steps from behind her alerted her of the presence of another. Then she jerked suddenly as Hurlock Emissary reached down to embrace her, grinning wickedly, her limbs still paralyzed. She was convinced that it would devour her face.

Her body was released from its magical hold, and her weight then fell into the darkspawn's arms. Millagre could feel the corruption flowing within him. The overarching terror of being dragged into the Deep Roads and made into a mother of darkspawn was channeled into her now mobile fist. As she split the Hurlock's lip with a sudden jab, she felt herself clatter to the floor.

The dwarf caught herself on her hands and knees, glancing upward, hand darting towards her dagger. She saw the creature clutching its face, but his eyes had never left her.

Then the Emissary raised its staff, and the world flashed.

By degrees, clarity and sense were restored. Anders stood before her, blood trickling through the gaps in his fingers. Though he was greatly displeased about saving the life of an old friend and being socked for it, the mage saw even more abject horror in her expression as she gazed up at him. He decided to verify exactly what it was the dwarf was seeing.

"You are seeing _me_ now, aren't you? Anders?"

"Yes." She struggled to catch her breath, then swallowed. " _Stones_ , I'm bleeding. Everywhere."

"Bleeding?" This caught the mage's attention immediately. He was a healer, after all, or considered himself to be. One wary glance cast behind him, and Anders was kneeling down at the woman's side.  

Millagre Stonecipher held up her hand, once coated thickly in crimson.

"It's happening again."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm losing it--"

Anders clasped her hand and examined it. It appeared to be a normal dwarven hand, and he could detect no wounds on her person. Hawke might have used the occasion to make a very tasteless joke. Anders could hear the man's voice, loud and insensitive: _Don't worry, love. There are plenty of crazy people out there in the world._

The mage decided then it would be a terrible idea for either of them to meet.

"You're fine. It was all hallucination--hexes, and multiple ones." His old friend seemed very nearly traumatized by what had just transpired. "Mages nicknamed the spell _waking nightmare_ for a reason. It distorts your sense of reality, and enters you into a partial sleep state, where imagination holds reign. Though I don't suppose you've had many dreams to begin with.

* * *

"There should be more of them."

The Warden-Commander narrowed her eyes in the half-dark, careful to step over the tangle of bodies. She did not search their pockets as she would have in the past. It required time they did not have.

"I agree. I'm curious as to why Zev and Alistair are not yet back, either. The Magister is in the library, not upstairs."

" _Was_ ," corrected Anders. "We don't know if he's still there."

She nodded somberly. "Then we need to hope he still is, and get this done."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As most DA fans know, the Tevinter Imperium strongly resembles another certain vast empire, and so I used some really basic bits of Latin in there. This may not have been the best stylistic choice. If it were Elvish I might make a more grand attempt at putting together bits of the language, as there is more of their lexicon to work with.


End file.
